


Dichotomy

by Saphruikan



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Big Sister Ymir, Demisexuality, Eye Trauma, F/F, Forbidden Friendship, I'm Sorry, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Isolation, Jean is an idiot, M/M, Naga, No Smut, POV First Person, POV Jean Kirstein, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Selfish Ymir being hella protective, Slow Build, Suicidal Thoughts, naga!marco
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-03
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-01-14 10:20:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 128,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1262677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saphruikan/pseuds/Saphruikan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean just wants to be better at hunting than that Eren Jaeger kid, and he figures that following a master hunter and picking up some tips will do the trick. But when he follows Ymir, the best his village has got, on a solo trip, he gets a little more than he bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stalker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean will probably fuck up.
> 
>  **STALKER** | _noun_ | a person who stealthily hunts or pursues an animal or another person

I’m shit at archery.

And in my village, that shit is _golden._ If you can’t shoot, you run after game like a lunatic with a weapon. If you can’t run fast, you set traps. If you’re an idiot and you can’t even do that, you’re stuck in the village, in the epitome of mundanity. 

Guess who can’t do any of these things.

Well, it certainly isn’t the guy next to me.

Whenever I nock an arrow, it swings to the side. When I try to be stealthy, my feet somehow manage to find every single loud twig on the forest floor. I can’t set up a decent trap for my life. The intricacies of hunting seem to elude me.

Our village, Trost, is quite prosperous compared to others I’ve heard about. I wouldn’t know, because I’ve never left here. We’ve got a couple thousand villagers and we’re surrounded by forests and mountains, all rich with wildlife. The nearest other civilization is a day’s ride from here to the east, and traders stop by every few months. We get trinkets, and they get meat and furs. Hunting is the biggest thing we’ve got going.

You want to know who’s great at hunting? Well, everyone knows. Good hunters are practically royalty in my village. Reiner’s awesome at the lunatic-with-a-club nonsense; he’s usually the one that runs down the game and slays it after it’s been shot and hobbled. 

Bertholdt’s an archer. He’s pretty good, too, and you wouldn’t expect it from such a shy guy. 

Erwin used to be our best hunter, but then he lost his arm to a bear, so he obviously can’t draw a string back anymore. He just leads a bunch of expeditions now. Levi is the short guy that never leaves Erwin’s side; apparently he’s one of the best we’ve ever had, not that anyone would know. He doesn’t really talk to anyone.

Mikasa’s a _ma_ zing. Let me _tell_ you. She’s just good at everything. Tracking, trapping, skinning, shooting, running, walking, talking, breathing. . . .

Her brother’s a little shit, though. I would _not_ mind if loud, antagonizing, idiotic Eren Jaeger got lost on some quest or something. He’s not even _good._ He’s just good at walking real quiet, but once he has prey in his sights he goes ballistic and charges it screaming. He hasn’t caught a single thing besides a cold.

Well, I haven’t either. But Eren shouldn’t have been breathing so close to me. It was his fault.

But the most admired hunter by far is Ymir. Ymir is tall, thin, and tan, with smatterings of freckles across her nose and cheeks. She has squinty eyes that are full of nothing but gleeful disdain. She brings back more game than anyone else, and she only goes hunting once a _week._ That’s how good she is.

You’ve probably noticed that I’m talking an awful lot about hunting. Well, hunting is kind of what our village revolves around. Our forests are too plentiful for it not to. We’re too far away from other villages to trade more often, and with winter on the way everyone’s making the necessary preparations to survive. We’re trying to do better than last year; we lost over sixty people to the chill.

What’s my contribution, you ask? Well, friend, let me tell you that my amazing and worthwhile contribution to the noble cause of feeding and supplying our hearty village is to be absolutely fucking useless and help Reiner bake.

Reiner’s got this thing where he has to be doing something at all times: socializing, exercising, working, anything. He just can’t sit idle. So he’s our resident baker when he’s not hunting. He’s a good guy, and he knows I hate feeling useless, so he taught me how to bake the bread as he stands outside reeling in customers. Or talks to Bertholdt. Bertholdt should work here, not me; the guy never leaves.

I only burned, like, three loaves beyond recognition, and those were first attempts. I got better.

I barely get paid, but I’m fine with that. My older brother Thomas is a decent trapper, so he provides for us enough. My mother and father don’t really pressure me to go out and do things. They don’t really pay attention to that.

I like my job, sure; I love Reiner (look, I’m not afraid to admit it, because everyone does; it’s hard not to) and the task is easy enough (everyone’s happy when you make food for them). The only downside is that Eren fucking Jaeger is the same age as me, just as useless, and works for _Ymir._

Reiner’s cool and all, but _Ymir._ She works with wicker six days a week, making everything from baskets to stools to chairs, and Eren helps her out and delivers things. I turned head-to-toe jealous when I heard about that. I can’t imagine being around Ymir all the time. She’s loud, raucous, and makes fun of everybody, but I harbor this weird notion that being around her will make me a better hunter.

The only thing that’s heartened me since then is that I hear Ymir’s gotten a bunch of new complaints from people. Apparently her works now sometimes fall apart, when before Eren started working with her her products were flawless. I think that’s actually the reason I started baking better, you know. I don’t know what the hell it is about Eren fucking Jaeger, but he makes me want to best him constantly.

I hear Reiner’s booming laugh outside, accompanied by the quiet undercurrent of Bertholdt’s chuckling. I roll my eyes. Reiner tends to forget about business when Bertholdt is around. I stick my head out from the back room. Sure enough, Reiner is there, leaning forward with his arms on the counter, talking animatedly to Bertholdt. 

Something else catches my attention, and my eyes widen before narrowing. Eren fucking Jaeger is traipsing by, and I grumble unintelligibly to myself. What a little brat. He even walks like a hothead. 

To my dismay, Eren strolls right up to the counter, and Reiner starts chatting with him immediately. _Traitor!_ But no, I calm myself. Today is a huge day.

I don’t go outside. Like hell I’d willingly associate with that moron. I’m not intimidated or anything, no way. It’s just that there are a lot of loaves to be scored. I have a quota to fill. Besides, getting in a fight with Jaeger is bad for my blood pressure. I’m just looking out for my health, see.

I hear Eren’s voice stop, and peek out again. He’s gone, and I relax. A good day for me is one where I don’t have to see his dumb, scrunched little face.

Then I hear Reiner’s voice from behind me. “Hey, kid, why are you cooping yourself up? Get out here and socialize.”

“Do I have to?” I mutter. I’ve got to keep up an act. “I’ve got stuff to do.”

Reiner looks around at the admittedly large number of loaves I’ve baked out of what seems like boredom today (but it’s actually not. I’ve got a plan). “We’re going to have to toss some of these. Come on, get out here. Be social with me and Bertl.”

 _Yes!_ I crow internally. I fake-attempt to resist him with loud protests and more than a few whacks, but he hauls me out to the front and plunks me down beside him. Bertholdt waves shyly; I ignore him. When Reiner wants you to socialize, you do it. He doesn’t seem to grasp the concept of the too-awesome-to-meddle-with-mortals. And that’s exactly something I’ve been counting on.

Reiner and Bertholdt resume speaking and I just sit there like a sack of flour. I grunt, “Yeah,” appropriately when Reiner pauses and just drift off, picking lumps of dough off my hands. My mind wanders, because today is great. Today is a big day.

I’m sick of bread. I can barely stomach the stuff anymore. No one pays attention to you when you’re a baker. No one cares that you’re putting food in their belly. No, to get recognition, there has to be blood involved. You need skill. Muscle. Endurance. You need fresh meat. 

Reiner’s great, but running down deer doesn’t seem all that great. Archery is dignified, lethal, and almost a guarantee of a hit. That’s the big thing. That’s what I want to be. I want to be the next big name on the lips of my peers. I want to be the one parents discuss over dinner when they bring up what their children could be like one day. I want to be above worthless Eren fucking Jaeger once and for all.

Fuck that guy.

Ymir weaves baskets like a normal woman six days a week, but on the seventh she goes out alone and brings home enough dead animals to feed a man for a month.

Today happens to be one of those days.

Today I’m going to seize initiative. I’m going to take that first step forward. When Ymir goes out alone to hunt, I’m going to follow her. 

Before you call me a creep, listen. I’m going to learn a thing or two. Maybe I’m just not hiding well enough. Maybe I’m stepping wrong. Watching a master (mistress?) at work will transform me. I _know_ it will. It’s got to.

And I know exactly when to begin my expedition, because Ymir always stops by to grab some snacks for her solo hunt. Reiner usually makes sure to bake her favorite: chocolate-studded rolls made with sweetened bread. Cocoa is a luxury out here, but Ymir gets what Ymir wants. And why the fuck would Ymir want that, honestly. Sweetened bread is fucking disgusting.

I happen to glance up and see her approaching. My heart picks up an excited pace, because my plan is beginning. She’s not too tall, but her presence matters; people subconsciously make way for her, scurrying out of the way, smiling nervously at her squinty glare and purposefully swinging fists and the unseen but unforgotten five huge scars that stretch across her skin from her right shoulder to left hip.

Ymir doesn’t care enough to hide them. Long and bumpy and ropy, those white scars have been on her for as long as I can remember. She often wears clothing that reveals her midriff and upper chest, so no one really forgets about them.

She got them from the naga.

Ymir’s always eager to rip her shirt off and tell you exactly how she got those scars, modesty be damned. I remember the exact moment she told me. I was twelve, and she was sixteen. I asked her upfront why her chest looked like a nightmare, and she thrust out with her hands, seized my upper arms, and lifted me bodily over her head. I can still recall with perfect clarity that psychotic grin. “You want to know, little boy?” she asked, and I nodded. 

So then she set me down and told me, along with a crowd of my enraptured peers. She’d been hunting up in the cliffs to the northwest of our little village with her brother when she saw it. The naga. The fearsome and freakish fusion between a man and a cobra. Ymir told us all about how she’d bravely fought the gigantic creature and barely escaped with her life and the five deep wounds from when the beast had scored her with its terrible clawed hands. Her brother had been devoured before her very eyes.

“I don’t go up there anymore, kids,” she said, nodding sagely, “and if I don’t, no one does. You don’t fuck with that naga. And if anyone _does,_ it’s going to be _me.”_

No one hunts in the northwestern cliffs for fear of the naga. Honestly, sometimes I used to lie awake at night, imagining the slithery, slimy body of a snake rustling outside my bedroom door. I used to creep into Thomas’s bed and sleep with him until he decided I was too old for it to be cute anymore and started shoving me out.

Well, I got the fuck over it, obviously. But still, no one fucks with that naga. Once something that dangerous makes its home somewhere, you deal with it and you avoid it.

Ymir strolls up to Bertholdt and slams her hip into him hard enough to make him yelp and buckle. “Whoops! Sorry, Berty! You should really learn to get out of the way.”

“It’s okay. I’m sorry,” Bertholdt squeaks, and makes his hasty exit. Reiner looks a little put out.

“The usual, Ymir?” he asks her, reaching behind the counter to bring out the prepared bundle. I baked those chocolate monstrosities this week. I feel pretty proud for that.

“You bet’cha,” Ymir says eagerly, snatching up her goodies and tossing a coin in the air for Reiner to catch. “Thanks, stud.”

“Anytime, girly. Hey, tell me how the rolls are, yeah? Jean baked them this time.”

Ymir raises a critical eyebrow over at me, and I do my best to look awesomely and casually indifferent. I’m not sure if it works, because Ymir scoffs and spins on her heel, walking away and waving a hand dismissively. I see she’s already bedecked in hunting gear under a thick winter coat (rather thicker than the weather would prompt, really), and have to refrain from bouncing in excitement. 

I clear my throat. “Hey, Reiner.”

“Hmm?” he hums distractedly, looking around. He’s probably looking for Bertholdt.

“Sooo,” I say slowly, my heart pounding a bit. “I did a lot of work today.”

“You did,” he agrees, turning to look at me.

“So I can have the rest of the day off, right?” I ask in a rush, slapping on a hopefully cute smile.

Reiner scoffs at my attempt to beg. He waves a hand graciously. “Do whatever. You earned it, worker bee.”

 _Fuck yeah!_ I stop myself from punching the air in success and vault off the stool. “Thanks, man!”

“Don’t get into trouble with Eren again, all right? Separating you two is getting old,” he calls after me as I collect my stuff and barrel out the back door.

 _Shit shit shit, please don’t have left already, pleaaase,_ I beg internally, trotting in the direction Ymir had gone. I want to say I dodge all the people who want to say hello to me, but no one does. The most attention I get is from the butcher, who narrows her eyes at me and stares until I’m out of sight. Christ, you steal one sausage and suddenly you’re a criminal.

 _There!_ I see the back of Ymir’s ponytailed head in the crowd. I jog closer to her before matching her pace, trying not to look suspicious. I probably look like a crazy Ymir stalker. It’s not the first time it’s happened. Ymir’s got a lot of admirers and some of them are _nuts._

Eventually we reach the western edge of town, where the forest looms, dark and foreboding. I can hardly contain my excitement. I kind of wish Jaeger can see me right now! On a hunt with Ymir, the best of the best and his boss besides! Well, Ymir doesn’t know I’m with her. That’s okay, though. We’re buddies even if she doesn’t know.

She doesn’t even break her stride as she slips right between the trunks of the trees and, with a rustle of the bushes, disappears into the gloom. 

Making sure no one is watching, I follow her.


	2. Slither

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean fucks up.
> 
>  **SLITHER** | _verb_ | move smoothly over a surface with a twisting or oscillating motion

You don’t really comprehend how fucking loud you are until you try to keep quiet. I’m literally taking the most careful and precise steps ever, but that doesn’t matter to the constantly snapping twigs beneath my feet.

My only saving grace is that Ymir is just as loud. She doesn’t seem to be making any effort to mask her presence; she just saunters through the woods like she owns the place, shoving through bushes and just generally walking noisily. Leaves rustle and hiss under her feet. She heads directly west, and I as well on her trail.

I walk far enough behind her that I can only glimpse the back of her bobbing head, and I duck like a motherfucker whenever I see even a _twitch_ of her neck. It would suck if she catches me; I can’t think of a way to explain why I followed her without sounding like a desperate loser, and I don’t think anyone would want to be alone in the woods with a pissed-off Ymir.

I haven’t been in the woods by myself at all yet, and even if I’m not truly alone, I feel oppressed. Everything from bears to wolves to cougars to porcupines rove these hills, and I keep glancing left and right to make sure a shape isn’t loping toward me. I never noticed how loud squirrels are; one tiny animal with enough leaves under its paws can make it seem like a stampede.

My legs are starting to darken from the damp, and my toes are starting to squelch and rub together. My shoulders ache from keeping myself hunched so low and ducking so often. God, how long is Ymir going to take? How long is she just going to barrel through the brush before she decides to get some nice hunting done? Is this a tactic or something? I wonder if I’ve been doing it wrong this whole time. Is the trick, instead of making an effort to be stealthy, to just walk along as bold as you please and chance upon an animal? Hunting seems lazy if it’s like that.

I flail and nearly trip when I realize Ymir has stopped, and I duck hurriedly, watching her through the leaves, breath bated in anticipation. Ymir’s looking around, squinting, and I think, _Yes! It finally begins!_

That is, until Ymir promptly spins on her heel, turns directly to her right, and resumes walking with the same forceful destruction as before. _Ugh._

I wait until she’s gone ahead a considerable amount before resuming the stalk. I was expecting more . . . you know . . . _excitement._ If I wanted to walk I would have . . . well, actually, I never want to walk. Fuck walking. I would have stayed at Reiner’s and listened to those two losers talk to each other.

The thought of giving up while Eren fucking Jaeger flashes into my head gives me the determination to keep going. Even if I’m insanely hungry. Ymir has always insisted upon going alone during her hunts. I’m the first person to ever see her in action! Learn her secrets! I’m the fucking _man!_ Suck my dick, Eren, you and your faulty wicker chairs.

I realize that I’m externally grinning like a psychopath as I internally fantasize about my imminent rise to glory. I hastily check to make sure Ymir is still within sight and oblivious of me, and I breathe a sigh of relief. 

There aren’t any paths here anymore. I mean, I figure someone as intrepid and skilled as Ymir doesn’t need a measly path, but it’s just making walking even more loud and obnoxious. And it kind of bothers me. I mean, we hunt a _lot,_ so we beat down a _lot_ of paths. Where the hell are we?

She was heading west. Then she spun right. 

Northwest.

I nearly slam into a tree. _Oh my fucking God._ Of all the days to follow Ymir, it’s the one when she finally decides to tramp up there and enact revenge against the fucking _naga._

What other explanation is there? There aren’t any trails because no one goes near here. Ymir’s the only one nuts enough to traipse right through the northwestern woods like she owns them; hell, she’s probably headed right toward the high cliffs.

“Fuck this. I’m going home,” I mutter to myself, and turn around. Facing the empty woods makes me stop. I can hear Ymir’s fading cacophony behind me, and my chest pangs with an emptiness I didn’t expect. 

How long have I been waiting for this? And I’m just going to let it go? Fuck that, Jean Kirschtein. There is literally no better opportunity than this. You get to watch Ymir hunt, sure, but _you get to watch her slay the fucking naga._ The _naga._ And you get to bear witness? Even if she dies (which, according to her, is either likely or unlikely depending on what mood she’s in), someone’s got to be around to tell people what happened, right?

What am I kidding. Now I’m excited. I don’t care about telling her sob story; I want to see her _kick ass._

And I’ll be there to soak up all that majesty like a two-toned _sponge._

Oh, and I can’t hear Ymir anymore.

I spin around, heart pounding. I realize right in this moment that I am farther west than is custom and farther north than is sane. I am alone in naga territory. Oh Christ, how _big_ is the naga? Ymir said it was bigger than a bear. Surely I can see that barreling towards me . . . not that that helps calm my nerves. Now I can’t stop imagining a hulking cobra, all hissing and rustling scales creeping up behind me.

I start jogging as fast and as quietly as I can (which isn’t very fast or quiet), muttering swears under my breath as I frantically search for a brown ponytail amongst all the bobbing greenery. Why are there so many fucking trees? Oh, I am so not getting lost in the fucking northwestern woods. I could swear she was just here a second ago. How long did my little crisis _take?_

The trees thin out to my left and I spare them a glance, slowing once I see a moving shape. I freeze before realizing it’s human, and spare a sigh of relief. I creep closer, because it can only be Ymir. 

Sure enough, a large glade stretches out in front of me, brimming with lush tall grass and purple wildflowers. Ymir strolls casually through the thick turf, whistling a loud and energetic tune and twirling a stick in her hand. I hunker down behind a tree at the edge of the clearing, watching her. She heads for a knotted tree trunk lying flat upon the ground, its roots tangled in the air, speckled with long-uprooted dirt; upon reaching it she flops down upon it, yawning and stretching her arms.

How anyone can be so casual in naga territory is beyond me. Maybe Ymir isn’t actually the best choice of a role model. Maybe she’s a genuine psychopath. Does she get her kicks from being in danger? Is that it? I take a moment to glance over my shoulders anxiously, as if begging to see a horrible snake face leering snaggle-fanged out of the shadows.

I’m interrupted by a piercing noise, and I jump nearly out of my skin, a startled exclamation wheezing from between my teeth. I snap my head back around to see Ymir’s hand falling from her mouth, and she starts rifling through her bag.

Did she . . . ? Did she seriously just . . . _whistle?_ Loud and clear through the whole forest where, lest we forget, a _fucking naga_ dwells? She’s nuts. I should have gone home. Oh God. I’m going to get eaten. If the naga didn’t know we were here it sure does now.

I almost debate with running out there to ask her to take me home, but hell no to that. Firstly, that would be admitting I ever followed her here, and I don’t want to ignite her wrath. Secondly, if she’s crazy enough to even go out here then she’s definitely crazy enough to do something stupid like ditching me or something equally cruel. 

I take another cursory glance over my shoulders, paranoia and anxiety making my heart pick up the pace. How about I never even let slip about this whole fucking incident to anyone. If I get home alive, I’ll be happy as hell. Forget the hunting; Jean Kirschtein wants to _live._

It’s when I’m looking around again that I see it.

I do a double take, because there’s a shirtless guy hunched over in the bushy shadows at the edge of the tree line far to the right of me, staring at Ymir. Her back is to him, and she seems oblivious.

I stare in mounting terror at him because holy Christ he’s just _staring_ at Ymir, crouched with his back bowed in the bushes, as if he’s trying to keep hidden. At least I don’t think he’s noticed me. But my fear ebbs away slowly as I reason with myself. It’s too far away to make out any distinguishing features, but that looks to me like a normal human. He’s the right size and shape, anyhow, just lacking a shirt. The naga’s supposed to be a gargantuan snake monster. So that can’t be it.

That still doesn’t really answer the question of why in the hell a man is hunched over and staring at Ymir as she sits there oblivious. I contemplate this as I hunch over and stare at Ymir, who sits there oblivious.

The man moves, and my eyes snap to him. Calling to Ymir never occurs to me, or perhaps it does, but no force exists that will propel my voice; only a frigid one that renders immobile my wide eyes. The guy slowly creeps out of the bushes, and the motion sends a shiver up my spine. It’s way to smooth to be natural. It’s like he’s being propelled by something.

Then I’m uncomprehending, because he doesn’t step into the clearing. He slithers.

It possesses the upper body of a normal man, but from the waist down is a huge, long, milky-bellied, black-scaled snake trunk. Scales merge with skin around the creature’s waist, highest up at the hips and lowest along the stomach and spine, the latter of which sticks out of its skin in bony ridges. The full body squirms out of the forest and coils twistingly under where the head should be, a glistening mass that must be over thirty feet long. 

The first thoughts that hit me are both, _Oh my God, the naga,_ and, _Oh God, it’s small and that’s somehow worse._

With terrifying swiftness the beast charges, the human part’s back bent low to the ground, its hands pawing, digging into the ground as the twisting tail flattens and writhes to propel it forward. Ymir hasn’t even noticed; the beast is far too quiet, and the only noise is the panicked roaring in my own head. _Ymir!_ I try to shout, but nothing comes out except a weak cry; my throat feels like it’s turned to stringy mush.

Ten feet from Ymir the snake slows and rears up, towering, the human hands bent into clawed fists, and with nightmare speed the creature lunges at Ymir’s back.

It happens so fast, but I see it all. Ymir doesn’t even look, just tosses her stuff off the log and throws herself sideways, covering her head; the snake’s heavy body hits the log with a loud thump as it misses. Ymir gathers herself, turns, and vaults directly into the arms of the beast, and her momentum shoves them both over the other edge of the log.

The naga’s tail whips through the air and they doubtlessly grapple, thumps and muffled exclamations being the thing I can absorb, and then even those phase out as I panic; the fallen tree censors anything else I might see. I stand, my knees like rubber, my tongue like wet bread; this is so unbelievably out of my league that I can’t even move to help her. _There goes the other one,_ flashes through my head over and over, stupidly, for the naga has claimed first one sibling and now the last.

Oh. I’m right here. When the naga gets bored, _I’m_ next.

I turn and promptly trip, hitting the forest floor hard; _Way to go, Kirschtein, now run like the wind!_ I urge myself, and heave myself onto my hands and knees.

It’s in that moment somehow that I can hear clearly. 

Ymir and the naga must still be fighting, because I can hear scuffling noises quite clearly behind me, but the noises I hear aren’t quite right for the situation.

Ymir is laughing.

I’m ready to dismiss this as crazy, psychotic, come-and-get-me-naga-bastard laughter, but it has a note of genuine giddiness that makes me look over my shoulder. Ymir has disentangled herself from the naga and is _chasing_ it, her arms outstretched, her weapons strewn all over the ground and forgotten. She’s howling something it takes me a while to decipher.

 _“Let’s gooo,_ little man! I’ll beat the snot out of you.”

I squirm back to the tree I’d been hiding behind before, genuinely in disbelief. The naga is fleeing her, its human head turned over its shoulder to behold her as its snake body slithers and hops with heavy leaps and bounds, always twisting just out of her reach. The naga faces me for a second, just one, and that’s all I need to see that the creature is smiling.

They’re playing.

_What._

Ymir skids to a thudding stop, huffing out great exaggerated breaths. She waves her fist in a joking manner. “Maybe in a minute. Give me a minute. _Wheeeew._ I’m getting too old for this. If that had landed, kiddo, I would've died, by the way.”

“No you wouldn't have,” pipes up a new voice, a male voice. The naga’s human mouth is moving, its tongue is flicking, but a young man’s voice is coming out of its mouth and the naga is speaking to Ymir and they’re playing tag and what the fuck is happening.

“I was just messing around,” the naga goes on, slithering up to her and lowering its human torso to her side, so that it’s at a realistic height for if it had legs. “I’m sorry if I startled you.”

“I almost didn’t hear you, little buddy,” Ymir sighs, throwing an arm around the naga’s shoulders and reaching up a hand to tousle its black hair. “Like a force of nature. I almost got scared.”

“Almost?”

“Almost. Do I get scared? I think not.”

They continue to babble as I lie there on my stomach like a moron, gaping at them. I mean, sure, I guess it could make sense that the naga can speak. It has a human mouth, after all. But Ymir’s . . . being _chummy_ with it. The creature that gave her her scars, ate her brother. The creature that used to keep me awake at night and instill terror in the whole village. 

I have got to get out of here.

Two things happen right now.

First, I try to get up. My hand goes down right on a twig, because of course it does, that’s just my luck.

Second, a gust of wind tousles the back of my head as it changes course, blowing from behind me into the glade. The naga goes silent and stiff as a board, its head tilted at a weird angle, its mouth open.

Then it snaps its head around to stare right at me.

Me, crouched in the dirt like the worm I am, as the beast looks directly into my eyes.

_Busted._

An unearthly shriek splits the silence, and I cry out in fear, scrambling to my feet as the naga launches itself away from Ymir and barrels right at me.

If that was play before, this is _not._ The naga’s face no longer looks human; its eyes have become wide and glassy and dull and its pupils have nearly disappeared into black slits, thin and sharp and dull as blades, and its mouth is gaping beyond the boundaries of the human skull’s capability to gape, exposing the stretched red folds of its mouth and dark expanse of its gullet. Two masses of flesh hang down from the roof of its mouth; a thin, tubular tongue propels itself from its within, whirring at the end. Its fingers have turned to impossibly long black claws, and scales erupt like dark boils all over its body as it gallops and writhes and skids toward me.

Hearing blots out; vision goes sharp. The rubber has congealed, the bread blackened. I turn and run like a motherfucker.

That earsplitting screech erupts behind me again as my feet pound into the dirt, sprinting through the forest as fast as I can go. My eyes are wide with horror, my mouth agape and rigid and panting, and my entire being screams, _Go! Go! Go!_ The noises I hear are worse than pursuing footsteps; instead I get irregular thumps and crashes as the naga tears after me, coiling and uncoiling its body to literally throw itself after me, smashing through bushes and into trees in indiscriminate haste.

The forest has no end and no variation; there are only trees and dirt and nowhere to hide. I’m way too far away from the village to even contemplate screaming for help. My body bows forward, my ankles wrenching and tingling, sure that jaws snap just behind them.

The naga shrieks a third time - animalistic, bestial, raspy and roaring and utterly inhuman - and it’s right behind me; I can feel the wind from its winding body buffeting me, bark and leaves thrown at my skin in the disarray of its pursuit. Is my back too flat to have a chunk bitten out of it on the fly, or will the naga just go for my legs instead? Or my arms? _Don’t stumble, don’t trip, please God don’t let me trip over my own feet,_ I pray as my feet thud clumsily on the forest floor. I’m making noise; maybe I’m sobbing, maybe moaning or panting, who the fuck knows because my life has never been about to end and I can’t hear a goddamn thing-

A hand wraps itself around my upper arm and I gasp out a half-scream, too winded and scared to do more; I’m wrenched from my path, thrown off my feet, and slammed back into a tree.

The back of my head slams into the bark. My vision lists to my feet, blurry and bright. My back arches in a halfhearted attempt to get free. “No, don’t oh _god,_ just-“

 _“Shut the fuck up!”_ Ymir screams in my face, her fingers digging into my arm. 

I breathe hard, blinking hard, trying to think hard, looking around wildly. The naga is nowhere to be seen.

Ymir’s eyes are wide and furious, her lips curled back, lifted in a snarl, and for a second I wonder if she’s a naga too. “Why the _fuck_ are you here?” she bellows. When my answer is a little too slow for her taste, she lifts me back up and slams me against the tree again. “I know you can fucking hear me! Answer the _fucking question!”_

“Ah- uh- I, uh- I f-followed y-you,” I manage to stutter out. “I just- wanted to see- wha- what the fuck was that thing? What the fuck was that?”

She glares at me in hearty anger, breathing just as hard as I am.

“That,” she growls, “is my brother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive thanks to avoidingavoidance for being avoidingavoidance.
> 
> Dichotomy!Marco shall hereby be known as the Snakebutt.


	3. Scunner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ymir almost fucks Jean up.
> 
>  **SCUNNER** | _noun_ | a strong dislike; a source of irritation

I just hang there for a second staring wide-eyed at her, my mouth still fixed in an open grimace of what-the-fuck.

“Your brother the snake ate your brother?” I ask blankly.

Ymir looks at me like I just dropped her newborn. “Are you fucking-“ She cuts herself off, releasing me; I nearly buckle to the ground, my knees so wobbly I’m afraid they won’t support me. I lean back heavily against the tree as Ymir paces, growling things under her breath, occasionally shooting me hateful glances. 

As I regain my breath, my eyes dart frantically all around for the beast. I risk a glance behind me; it’s nowhere to be seen. The shadows have grown longer as the day goes on, and the wind has picked up, feeding my imagination a steady meal of oh-look-a-hulking-shape-in-the-bushes.

“Where’d it go?” I ask.

She whirls on me and I shrink back. _“He,”_ she spits, “is probably hiding somewhere after you scared him.”

My jaw hangs open. “Whoa, okay, wait. _I_ scared _him?_ Did you not just see him try to eat me?”

“You startled us! You’re not supposed to be here – of _course_ he flipped out a bit!” She throws her hands up in the air in exasperation. “Pity he didn’t fucking tear you apart.”

“Yeah, pity,” I repeat squeakily, still looking around for the naga. “W-Where the fuck _is_ it?”

“Stop calling him an it!” Ymir roars, and she’s up in my face again, her nose almost bumping mine. “You don’t fucking call him that. Why the fuck are you here? Who sent you?”

I sidle around the tree a little bit, away from her, blinking in incomprehension. “Sent me? No one. I sent me.”

“Don’t fucking play,” she snarls, following me with a vicious tilt of her head. “Who was it, huh? Shadis? Levi? Fucking _Erwin?_ That bastard’s been on my back for fucking _years-“_

“Wait, whoa whoa, stop,” I say. “I-I wasn’t sent by anyone, I swear. Look, I was just really fucking jealous that you get so much respect and shit because you’re a great hunter, so I wanted to see you in action and, like, I don’t know, _learn_ something because I’m sick of being a baker-“

“Oh, shit,” Ymir says suddenly. “I knew I knew you from somewhere. You’re that kid that made the fucking chocolate abominations. That rude douchebag from Reiner’s.”

“Wh- Abominations? I slaved over those!”

“So you followed me,” Ymir interrupts, “out of your own volition? Did anyone know this? Where you were going?”

“No, I-“ I hear a rustle from somewhere behind me and whip my head around to look. Nothing. “I . . . well, I wasn’t about to tell anyone I was stalking you, that’d be kind of embarrassing-“

“And no one knows where you are now?”

 _“No,_ for the third fucking time. I literally thought you were going hunting! Not going and- and playing tag with the fucking naga that ate your brother!”

“He didn’t _eat_ my brother, you idiot,” Ymir drawls angrily. “I made that up! Marco _is_ my brother. I told everyone that so no one would come up here and find him- which obviously did not fucking deter _some_ people!”

My eyes flit down to her chest, to the scars that rent her midriff. 

“Bear,” she growls before I can even ask the question. “Not him. Marco is harmless.”

Marco. It sounds like such a normal name. It feels wrong to give something as human as a name to that thing. “Yeah, he looked really fucking harmless just now. He’s a fucking monster.”

She punches me. I see (and somehow hear) a white flash, my head snapping back from the force of her fist. Ringing starts up in my ears immediately, and tears flood to my eyes as I clutch my pounding nose. _“Fucking OW!”_ Blood starts flooding down in sheets from both nostrils, coating my upper lip and splattering on my shirt.

“Suck it up,” Ymir says uncaringly, wiping her hand off on her pants. “You’re the one who cocked all of this up.” She moves away, beginning to pace again. “Don’t fucking move. Now I have to figure out what to do with you.”

I cannot think of an adequate response to this past the prickling, burning pain in my face. I spit messily, and blood rains down upon the leaved ground. I pinch my nose with dripping hands, red drops siding down my arm to pool in my sleeve. Fuck, I am _never_ getting this out.

I don’t interrupt Ymir. I’m not that stupid. I’m burning with questions, but she’ll probably get annoyed and break something else. I’ll wait until she initiates conversation again.

The naga’s fanged face keeps reappearing behind my eyelids, and I spend the whole time Ymir paces around trying to figure out what to do with me spinning in a slow circle, jumping at every little noise. For some reason it’s so much worse that the naga is my size. Big animals become unavoidable, unstoppable. They kill you with mighty bites that waste no time. Things the size of a human? They kill you slowly because they can’t do it any faster. They’re too small to swallow you whole, so they take dozens of bites out of you until you drain. And there’s always that chance you could fight off something smaller, that chance that makes you struggle like a trapped rodent, the one that exhausts you and fills you with false hope.

Hell, I’ve never been attacked by _anything_ before (except for Eren fucking Jaeger a decent amount of times). My imagination is tapping into a font of information that’s beyond primal. I’d prefer a bear to this fucking naga.

“Okay,” Ymir says, abruptly turning to me; I straighten up, my heart hammering. “I’m stuck between threatening you with dismemberment if you even breathe a word, or just making this easier on myself and slitting your throat right now.”

“First option,” I choke out, horrified. I can’t forget the rage in her face when she realized someone saw her precious naga. I don’t even doubt that she’s considering silencing me for good. Fucking psychopath. What I wouldn’t give to still be at Reiner’s right now instead of alone in the woods with the naga and its overprotective sister.

“You would say that. Come on, asshole, let’s go clean your fucking horsey face.” She seizes my upper arm and drags me behind her; I stumble and try to regain my feet while being hauled sideways, as well as holding back a tirade about her calling me horsey (“Horseface” is the name Eren fucking Jaeger gave me when we were thirteen, the bastard). I keep my fingers clasped over my nose, looking over the back of my hand at the woods to see if the naga’s following. It isn’t.

Ymir seems to know exactly where she is in this forest, and after about a minute of me desperately trying not to trip Ymir she releases me by a creek. “Clean up your fucking face,” is all she says before turning back to the woods.

I refrain from sticking out my tongue at her and squat by the running water. How the fuck am I supposed to do this? What am I supposed to do, stick my fucking face in?

Ymir answers my question by planting her boot on my hunched back and sending me sprawling forward. I barely catch myself from bashing my face on the creek bed, but a good amount of water splashes my head; I rear back up, sputtering and gagging. “Can you fucking _not?”_ I exclaim.

“You’re taking too long. Don’t complain to me, horsey. You’re the one who ruined _our_ day.”

I don’t ask who she means by “our” and rub my hands in the cold water of questionable cleanliness, twitching my nose to try and dislodge some of the dried blood and muttering under my breath things she would probably kick me again for.

After a lot of rubbing and sticking my fingers up my nostrils to get the crustiness out (don’t judge, I know you do it too) I stand, sniffling to attempt to be able to breathe again. “So, uh, you’re going to not kill me, right? Look, I guess I’m sorry for following you and everything, but I didn’t ask to see your fucking naga or to have it chase me.”

“Nah, you didn’t,” Ymir concedes drawlingly, frowning at me. “So I guess that leaves the alternative. Follow me.”

She starts off into the forest and I follow her, trying not to look like I’m sticking too close to her or anything (when I totally am; I don’t want to turn around and see the naga with more than five feet between me and Ymir). “Are we going home? If we go home I’ll bake you all the fucking chocolate shit you want-“

“We’re not going back yet,” Ymir cuts in, sounding irritated. “You’re going to go up to my Marco and apologize.”

I stop short. “Are you fucking serious? You’re calling it _again?_ Fuck no!”

She whirls on me again, and I let out a tiny squeak and shift away. “Yeah, and you’re going to look him in the eye and tell him you’re sorry for scaring him so bad he lashed out.”

“That is the dumbest fucking logic I’ve ever heard,” I protest, but she gives me a dangerous look, so I swallow and tell myself to tone it down. Internally I seethe; I don’t want to go and reassure a predator like it’s a fucking five-year-old. “Will it attack me again? I mean, isn’t it supposed to be a monster? Like an animal?” I skitter away a few paces when Ymir’s face twists into a snarl at the word “monster.”

“Let’s get something straight here,” she growls, stopping. “Marco is a naga but that doesn’t make him a monster. I made all that shit up because our village is populated by superstitious meatheads who attack anything unless it’s never been seen. No one would think twice about coming up here and turning my brother into a pair of leather boots.” The way she says its name, calls it her sibling, has a possessive and proud undercurrent and I try to wrap my head around that. “You heard him speak, I’m sure. He’s not a fucking mindless animal.”

“Is he the only naga?”

“The only one I’ve ever seen.”

“So . . . if he’s a naga, and he’s your brother . . . are you a naga too?”

She looks at me like I grew a second head. “Are you fucking stupid? Do I look like a snake to you?”

“Well I don’t know!” I say defensively. “Did he, like, hatch out of an egg or something, or-“

“How about this. You shut the fuck up and stop asking questions, all right?”

“All right, whatever,” I grumble, scratching my nose absently. It’s still sore as hell, but not broken, as far as I can tell. 

I only realize she’s taking me back to the glade with the fallen tree when we arrive. I pause when she strides right out into the open without a second of hesitation. I don’t want to go onto those grounds, where the naga had lurked just now, even if it was being playful or whatever. I just want to go home and pretend this never happened. Not that I would know, but near-death experiences are fucking scary.

Ymir looks back and angrily gestures for me to follow, so I mutter under my breath and creep out, trying to pretend I don’t see shapes in the tall grass. Ahead of me Ymir puts her hand to her mouth and lets loose that piercing whistle, and I curl my lip anxiously, glancing all around. I heard once that animals smell fear, so I try to reassure myself. Ymir got in between me and the naga once before; as long as I stick close to her, she can do it again.

We sit on the log and wait a few minutes in awkward silence, Ymir’s leg bouncing impatiently, until she stands with a growl. “He’s too scared. Marco!” she calls loudly to the trees. “Come out here, punk, I won’t let the guy hurt you.”

I find this pretty fucking rich, but don’t say anything. Ymir will probably hurt me again. 

“Come on, Marco. I promise you’ll be fine. I know you’re a little freaked out, but Jim here isn’t going to run his mouth, I swear. He’s just a dumbass who didn’t mean to scare you. I could probably snap him I half if I wanted to.”

“It’s Jean.”

“Please ask me if I give a shit.” She sits back down. “If he doesn’t show I’m going to make you eat my satchel.”

“So once I say sorry or whatever, can we leave?” I ask impatiently. “It’s getting dark. My parents are going to be pissed.”

“I’m more pissed than your parents could ever hope to be. Calm the fuck down.”

“I am calm,” I insist, even though my hands are twisting together hard enough to make my skin white. 

Ymir doesn’t deign to respond. I sit there, my spine tingling, looking over my shoulder every two seconds out of paranoia. If that snake comes flying out of the woods and bites my face off, I’ll use my dying breath to punch Ymir in the stomach. 

Ymir’s head jerks to the side, and for a second I’m afraid I just spoke out loud. But she’s looking away from me, toward the skyward roots of the unsettled tree. A face is poking out shyly from behind those tangled limbs, and my heart jumps into my throat. Upon making eye contact with me the naga utters a little noise and withdraws its head.

Ymir gets up immediately, calling to it. I stand too, knees wobbling; the fucking thing managed to sneak up to us like it was nothing. 

Ymir’s murmuring and gesturing at me, and I feel almost offended that she’s trying to convince this supernatural monster that I’m the one who it needs to try and trust. It’s like a tamer telling her pet lion to please not sample the fresh shanks of the human sitting there twiddling his fucking thumbs.

Then Ymir’s walking back to me, looking purposeful and dangerous as hell. The naga slinks behind her in such a way that I can’t really see it, and I skitter back a bit. “Uh, it better not-“

Ymir punches me in the arm hard enough to make me yelp. “Say hello.”

She steps to the side, glaring at me like she’s more of a predator than the naga itself. Oh, by the way, the naga is right in front of me. All thirty-plus feet of it.

Now that I’m close to it and not being chased by it, I can actually see what it looks like. Its human half looks like the torso of a teenage boy, its skin darkened from the sun, darker than Ymir's, with dense splashes of freckles splashed across its arms and shoulders and face. Its hair is black, shaggy, and unkempt, long enough to curl around its neck and graze its shoulders. I can’t really see the family resemblance between it and Ymir; Ymir’s got a pretty sharp face with hawkish features, while this face is more squared and even. The naga's face would look normal if it weren’t for its eyes. In both, the huge, dark, caramel-colored iris takes up almost the entire eye, and the round pupil is just as freakishly large. It fades into blackish blue instead of white around the edges, making the whole thing look dark and unnatural.

It’s not reared up enough that I can see much of its snake body up close, but I can see its dark back winding through the grass behind it. It’s not actually black, but a really dark brown with lighter-colored stripes segmenting it every few feet. It’s thick enough that I'd almost be able to wrap my arms around it at its widest. Not that I ever would. I’m not touching that thing in a million years.

The naga’s human back is hunched, its hands wringing nervously in front of its stomach. It’s shaking a little. It stares nervously at the ground, glancing at Ymir or up at me every few seconds. It opens its mouth, but nothing comes out except a hiss, and it swallows.

I’m leaning back as far as is humanly possible, staring with a mix of horrid fascination and disgust. Its body is shiny, and I wonder if it’s slimy and wet to the touch. Every so often a section of it twitches and bends. Fucking unnatural.

“Hey, asshole,” Ymir pipes up; I jump at the loudness of her voice. “Polite people would offer their hand or something.”

I don’t hide the revulsion I feel at this concept, but Ymir is my only way home. Slowly, jerking it back reflexively every few seconds, I hold out my hand in a tentative offering.

The naga stares up at it like it’s going to get bitten. “Ymir,” it whispers frantically. “What am I supposed to do?”

It’s got a deep teenager voice and a weird, foreign accent that folds over some words and utters some syllables too quickly, like its tongue is fat and cumbersome. 

Ymir leans forward and takes its wrist gently, guiding its hand up into mine. My breath catches as it draws near, but the slimy moisture I expect is absent, instead replaced by your standard warm human hand. The naga’s palms are rough and callused and covered in a faint layer of dirt. I try not to visualize those black claws I saw earlier. Maybe they were just my imagination.

Like I’m waiting for one or both of us to explode, I shake its hand very slowly, staring at its wide, distorted eyes the entire time. I let go as quick as I can, wiping the dirt and the feeling of having touched the creature off on my trousers.

Ymir clears her throat. I swallow, taking a deep breath and glowering at the canopy of the trees behind the naga. Oh, look, a squirrel. “I’m sorry I scared you,” I enunciate slowly in literally the most insincere tone that has ever escaped my mouth. 

I almost expect the naga to say the same thing back, but I guess not. It stares at me like _I’m_ the naga. Well fuck you, then, snakebutt.

Ymir stands then, slinging her arm over the naga’s shoulders and ruffling its long hair roughly. “Was that so hard?” she demands of me, glaring.

I see that stupid naga cowering under her arm like I’m going to eat it and I realize this is the most ridiculous situation I’ve ever had the misfortune of being in. Following someone into the woods does not warrant almost getting killed and then being stared at like _you’re_ the crazy one. I didn’t walk out of the village expecting anything more complicated than some mild stalking. I don’t want to have to go back and _remember_ this shit happened.

And I’m pissed off, because Ymir expects me to play house with the naga that- . . . well, fuck, I guess she’s pretending she didn’t see it barreling after me through the woods. I had a near-death experience and I feel like I’m owed something, not glares and meaningless handshakes. The fucking thing didn’t even know how to give a handshake, and she’s calling it her sibling like I should believe her?

“Can I go now?” I ask.

If Ymir wants to pretend that thing’s related to her to delude herself into feeling guiltless for keeping a secret pet, as well as telling nightmare stories to an entire village just for kicks, she and any credibility I held for her can fuck right off and do that.

The naga moves, and I flinch. It’s shifting away from Ymir and gliding away; I keep staring at its shifting scales and thinking of the word “slippery,” and its dumb brown scales _look_ wet and slippery and my palm tingles as I wipe it on my clothes again to get the imaginary slime off. The naga slinks to the tree line, shooting Ymir a glance.

“Wait here,” Ymir tells me, and as she leaves I reluctantly sit, crossing my arms, irritated at being delayed. I want to go home and lock myself up in me and Thomas’s room and never have any excitement ever again. I actually miss Thomas, if you can believe that. 

I can’t hear them from here. I try to imagine what they’re talking about. _Hey, cute little naga, try not to eat anyone this week, okay?_ I snort, rubbing my hands; it’s getting pretty dark, and the bugs are starting to sing.

Ymir comes back over and I stand. She says, “In case it wasn’t fucking obvious, you completely just ruined my day.”

“Wow, I’m _so_ sorry,” I say sarcastically. I glance over; the naga is gone. “So this whole time you knew this naga was here? And you’re its friend?”

“Sister,” she says forcefully, “and yes. Do you have a fucking problem?”

Trick question, trick question like _whoa._ “No,” I mutter untruthfully, not wanting her to cave my face in.

“Good.” She goes up to me really close, like toe-to-toe close, and puts her hand on the top of my head, forcing me to face her. “Because if you tell anyone – and I mean _anyone_ – I will literally tear you apart. Got it? Not Reiner, not your mommy and daddy, not even yourself when you look in the goddamn mirror. As far as anyone knows, as far as _you_ know, you saw me walking in the woods and you turned in the other fucking direction. This day is going to fucking wipe itself from your memory. _Got_ it?”

She doesn’t blink, doesn’t stutter, doesn’t look a millimeter from my eyes, and I swallow, knowing she is being absolutely honest. “Got it,” I say quickly. I’d been debating between just forgetting this ever happened and telling the entire village, but this gentle argument (I’m lying) convinces me of the former.

Ymir smiles suddenly, crinkling up her eyes and wrinkling her nose, and it’s so false and exaggerated that I shrink back. “Oh, good. Because I’ll be around. And if you open your mouth, trust me. I’ll know.”

I swallow again, suddenly dry-mouthed. “I’m cool with that.”

“This was a nice chat, Jim. Now start walking if you want to go home so badly.” She gives my shoulder a shove.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friendly reminder that I am shit and this is shit and it’s rushed and short because I want to make it easier for me to finish it.
> 
> Marco has a Belgian accent.


	4. Stroller

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean attempts to not fuck up.
> 
>  **STROLLER** | _noun_ | a person taking a leisurely walk

Ymir leaves me with a muttered, “Not a word,” and a narrowed glare when we terminate our awkwardly silent traipse back with feet on civilized ground. Then she keeps on walking like we’d never spared each other a glance in our lives. Hell, I’m fine with that.

I head directly home, because it’s not like I’ve got anywhere else to go, and devour dinner like there’s no tomorrow. Then I collapse on my bed, ignoring Thomas, and sleep for about twelve hours.

Thomas has to throw a pillow to wake me up the next morning, and even after that I take an extra ten minutes to drag myself out of bed. Thomas shakes his head disapprovingly at me as he walks out, all dressed up already; I watch him go without managing to flip him off and think, _I know something you don’t._

It’s a bit surreal, walking to Reiner’s for the day. I just keep looking around at these people and imagining them whispering, imagining them speculating, pondering, considering. How the hell had I ever been afraid of the naga? It’s a frickin’ kid. It’s a teenager. A teenage snake. How fucking pathetic is that?

And it just drifts away.

It was one wild day I had, and I get over it. It devolves from a constant reminder that pops up whenever I see something that even _remotely_ reminds me of the naga (ropes become sinuous limbs, arrowheads fangs, knife hilts black claws) to a dull recollection in the back of my head. Ymir told me to forget, and it’s easier than I thought it would be. I acknowledge that it happened, but that’s all I do anymore.

So I ignore it. I get up, go to Reiner’s, go home, and fuck around because I have nothing else to do until I get tired. Sometimes I have conversations with Thomas that never quite cross the threshold from forced and awkward into comfortable and companionable. Sometimes I help my mom cook, where she asks me every single time whether I’ve quit going to the bakery in favor of “honing my real skills,” which neither of us can identify. Sometimes my dad and I sit together and talk idly about hunting, hunting, _hunting._ It’s all there is. It’s all I want.

The main thing I want to do is just get good enough to retire comfortably. My family’s never had much of a financial crisis, but I’m the laziest fuck I know. A comfortable, careless life sounds like paradise to me. Be skilled at hunting in an early enough age, get enough respect and influence, and you nab yourself a spot in the chief’s personal guard, where your food, income, and solidarity is basically handed to you on a silver platter. But the only way to really launch yourself down this slippery slope is to first gain respect. By hunting. Because that’s all we do.

I would go practice archery behind my house, but I’ve already said I’m shit at it, and the last time I tried Eren fucking Jaeger found me and brought his little gang to witness me get steadily more frustrated with myself. I couldn’t tell which was worse: having Eren watch me utterly fail at being skilled, or having Mikasa watch me. I quit it soon after that; there was no point in making myself look like an idiot when I obviously wasn’t getting any better, and I’m way too full of my fucking self to ask someone to teach me.

Yeah, everything goes on as normal, except for one thing. I’m suddenly seeing a whole lot of Ymir. Like, before I hadn’t really noticed her, you know? I mean, I would pass her on the street and barely care, except to acknowledge that this person is cool as hell. But now I just frickin’ see her _everywhere._ We walk down the same roads. We sometimes find ourselves in the same houses at little get-togethers, maybe even the same rooms. We make eye contact all the time. I always make sure to look away as quickly as I can, but before I do I see that her face is impassive, as if I’m just any other teenage brat that won’t stop staring admiringly at her.

And she goes out and hunts once a week like she’s always done, except I’m the only one who really knows what’s up. You’re cool, Ymir, but I’ve got dirt on you.

Not that I’m going to say anything. If I open my mouth Ymir will probably eat me.

Besides, whatever, I’m not going to be the one to break the tenuous truce between us. If she wants to fuck off and, like, play tag with a naga or something, who am I to judge? It still makes me squirm when I overhear her telling her naga tale to a group of little kids, mainly because I’m a smarmy fuck and I want to pop in and be like, “Heeey, kids! I know the truth!”

Another thing that sucks is that apparently my chocolate sweet bread is a big hit with Ymir, because she requested (to Reiner, not me) that I continue to bake it every week instead of him. The last thing I want is to further tie myself to her, and I was kind of hoping Reiner would get offended, but I forgot he’s the most big-brotherly type this side of the mountains, and he saw it as me getting something right for once; he was ecstatic. Fuck.

Maybe I can lace the bread with laxatives or something.

. . . Nah, I like my body intact.

v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v

I never really realized just how much people _talk_ about the naga on a daily basis. It’s just kind of there, you know? Hi, welcome to our village, our main exports are meat and furs and we’ve got a naga to the north. Just a cute little quirk of ours, that we have a mythological beast living in the cliffs. People talk about it with a familiarity that borders on pride, as if it’s actually the _village_ pet, and not just Ymir’s. Hear something rustling in the woods? Oh-ho, it must be that wacky naga, the one we’re going to laugh about as we hightail it in the other direction!

No one talks about it more than Hanji does, though. Hanji is fucking _weird._ She’s a self-proclaimed scientist-surgeon, and when she’s not doing weird-ass experiments on animals and plants she loves talking about shit like this. I heard she claims to have seen, all on separate occasions, a werecat, a herd of centaurs, and a Kanima, which you must douse in salt before believing, because to hear her tell these stories is like listening to a five-year-old recite a dream for all its surreality. At least Ymir’s got her scars to lend some authenticity.

I hear her loud, nasally voice coming steadily closer one day as I’m making croissants (fucking sweet bread). Reiner’s out in front, doing his favorite pastime of chatting up Bertholdt. I heard Reiner break off his conversation and say, “Hey, welcome, guys! Sticking around today? What can I get for you?”

Hanji just keeps talking about whatever it is she’s talking about, but I hear another voice intone, “The usual.” I peek my head out, wondering who in the hell would willingly spend time with Hanji. I duck my head back inside to hide a snort; Levi is literally the shortest guy you’ve ever seen, but he’s also creepily quiet and intimidating, and he could probably kick ass, so I don’t want to get caught making fun of him.

Reiner pops in, a big dumb grin on his face (that shit becomes permanent whenever Bertholdt is around). “Hey, three croissants and a Reiner Braun special, please,” he rumbles, and withdraws. I roll my eyes. A “Reiner Braun special” is what he calls literally the nastiest thing any baker could ever endeavor to make. It’s this ring of bread that’s got nuts and oatmeal in it. I don’t even know what it is. I make it every day and I still don’t know what it is. I’m bringing it out to the counter and I still don’t know what it is.

We have three stools in the front for when people just want to lounge around, and taking up two of them are Hanji and Levi. Hanji’s talking Levi’s ear off about something or other, her spectacles flashing as her head twitches to and fro in enthusiastic fervor; her hands flail out and whack Levi’s shoulder more than once within a span of five seconds. Levi just sits there like a moody vulture staring at a wall and nodding every once in a while.

I set their stuff down in front of them, awkwardly smiling without showing teeth because I know Reiner’s watching. He’s trying to get me to be more sociable or some shit, and I guess that means he wants me to smile at everyone. I don’t get _why._ I don’t like people, and no one likes a fake smile.

“Come hang out here for a while,” Reiner booms, throwing his arm out to block my way when I try to go back inside. I make a face at him and he gives me this look, like, _I know what you’re thinking, so stop._

Reiner turns and galumphs back to Bertholdt, who never sits at the stools because he’s convinced that existing literally anywhere is taking up too much space. I edge a bit toward them, close enough that it looks like I’m participating in whatever these two weirdos do, and lean against the wall with my arms crossed. 

I think Levi’s looking at me.

“They’re not that fast, if you don’t let them notice you,” Bertholdt is currently murmuring.

“Yeah, well, you don’t have to run after the fuckers! There’s practically nothing on them, anyway. Ducks are better to catch.”

“Ducks aren’t as big . . .”

“Geese have fucking _teeth.”_

“You’re much bigger and stronger than a goose.”

“That’s easy for you to say; you’re up in a tree the whole time!”

Like I said. Hunting.

Levi is definitely staring at me. What, am I that ugly or something?

I take advantage of Reiner’s obnoxiously big bulk to sidle out of Levi’s line of sight, but somehow I feel like he can still see me. From over here (or anywhere, really) I can hear Hanji’s bubbly yawping.

“-seeks a master, but it was first translated as _friend,_ so that lead to a whole slew of misconceptions about it and what its motives are- but I saw it! I got close. Green as poison! It had a very short muzzle, but it also had pits, for heat-sensing, you know? Like a snake.”

Uh oh. Here we go. She went and slipped and said the S-word. Prepare for the onslaught.

“And speaking of snakes, I heard Hitch ran into our naga last night,” Hanji squeals excitedly, like she wants nothing more than it similarly run into the naga in the woods, alone, at night. “She said it was bigger than an elephant! Oh, what I wouldn’t give to get my hands on that thing! I’d count its _scales,_ I would! I wonder what color it is? Probably green, you know, to blend into the forest. Or gray, to blend into the cliffs!”

 _It’s brown, lady,_ I have the overwhelming urge to say, but I manage to hold it in. Wow, Levi totally is staring at me. And it’s really starting to creep me out.

“And I wonder what _kind_ of body it has,” Hanji sighs, looking and sounding like she’s talking about the love of her life. “Is it a _long_ and _thin_ body, or a _short_ and _chubby_ one, like a python’s? Are its scales round or diagonal? Does it have snake or human eyes? What color is the human part’s skin? Oooh, if only someone knew all these things! I’d pay _good money_ to beg at their feet! So close, and yet so far!”

At this point her head is slumped in her arms, as if she’s exhausted and can’t hold up the weight of having such a needlessly and creepily curious mind any longer. And yeah, Levi is staring at me.

God, how my skin itches to be the presumptuous asshole I am and strut up to Hanji and amaze her with my intimate knowledge of all of these facts. _Long and thin, diamond-shaped, snake eyes, tan skin,_ I say in a mantra in my head. _Weird accent._

I can’t. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t. I really can’t. 

God, I’m such a showoff. My skin is crawling. Knowing something that an expert on the topic doesn’t is a blessing and a curse.

Maybe I could drop some tantalizing hints.

The thought barely crosses my mind when my eyes alight on a face not even a mother could love, and it reminds me sharply of the line I’m currently toeing. Eren fucking Jaeger is walking up to the counter, a big wicker basket slung over his shoulder. Ymir’s apprentice. Great. My skin crawls now for a different reason as I realize I’d actually been tempted to divulge the big naga secret.

Eren marches up to Reiner, shooting me a disdainful glance, and opens his wicker basket to reach inside. “You order this?” he asks, withdrawing from its depths a little wicker figurine of a rearing horse. Wow, wicker within wicker. How cute.

Reiner perks up in delight. “I sure did!” he booms, snatching it up eagerly. He turns to Bertholdt. “Isn’t it adorable?”

“Aww, Reiner, that’s really nice of you,” Eren says, glancing at me, “getting a little thing of your employee.”

“Shut up, Jaeger.” I hate being called Horseface. It’s not my fault my face is long.

Reiner obviously doesn’t hear Eren (he never hears anything but Bertholdt most of the time) so that rules out him defending me. Great. Having a great big blonde bodyguard friend would come in lots more handy if the great big blonde bodyguard isn’t fucking smitten half the time.

“How’s baking coming along? I bet you really save some lives with cute little garlic knots.”

“At least I do my job _right,”_ I snap viciously, glaring at him. “I hear Ymir has to keep fixing your stupid mistakes.”

“Yeah, but,” Eren snorts. _“Ymir._ No offense to Reiner, but my boss is Ymir. It must be hard on you, you know, seeing me being trained by someone like Ymir while Reiner teaches you a hundred and one ways to get flour on yourself.”

“Reiner’s awesome,” I say hotly, even though I basically think the exact same thing, like, all the time. “And oh, wow, what a big deal that Ymir is teaching you how to play with sticks. A three year old could play with sticks.”

“A three year old can’t make a little figure that looks exactly like you, though,” Eren says smugly.

At this point Reiner finally stops fawning over the dumb little horse and reaches into his pocket for some money, which he hands over to the still-smiling Eren, who shoots me one last look and walks away.

Ugh, what a bitch. How does anyone even _stand_ that guy?

Levi’s eyes are practically burning a hole in the side of my head.

v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v

There aren’t any customers for, like, another hour, so Reiner tells me to take the rest of the day off. To anyone else this’d be all great and fine and stuff (woo, go teenagers, live like you’re dying), but I’m too ashamed to admit to Reiner that the bakery is literally the only thing that gets me out of the house. So when he lets me go early, it’s with only a halfhearted whoop that I hang up my apron, discard my thick mitts, and troop out. 

I make an effort to look purposeful, at least. I straighten my back and try to look disinterested, like any other teenager with nothing better to do, you know? Not like I’m actually just trying to take my sweet time home. Every minute more I spend strolling down a street, hands in my pockets, chin tilted up, eyes half-lidded, is another minute I don’t have to spend moping around the house like a loser. 

I hear loud laughter and turn my head to see a short bald kid swinging on a low tree limb with a ponytailed girl. They see me and wave quickly before returning their attention to each other. Sasha and Connie really need to get it over with and bone. I barely talk to them anymore and even I realize that.

We used to be friends when we were younger. We had this big old group, with me, the Eren-Mikasa-Armin trio, and those two loons. We did everything together, let me tell you. We played pranks all the time. Woke up with your house covered in raw bacon? That was us. Dug that bacon under your porch so your dogs would go nuts? Also us. Threw balls of bacon at each other instead of snowballs? Take a guess.

We had a lot of bacon to spare, before you ask. Sasha’s the daughter of a butcher. She eats more than the village combined.

I can’t remember exactly what made me stop being friends with them. I don’t really know what happened. We were like peas in a pod until we were thirteen, and then we started drifting away.

Or, at least, _I_ drifted away. I don’t like to think about it, but the guys seem as close as ever.

Whatever. It’s not like I constantly need a group of people to be around. I’m fine being on my own. It’s a solo act, see. Chicks dig it. Mikasa will surely be lured in by my mysterious loner looks and lifestyle. Any day now.

Cane the dog lifts her big bulky head as I walk in my house, sniffing in a disinterested manner, before settling her nose back in between her paws. We don’t really pay attention to each other, except when I occasionally pass by and call her a slut. I don’t really know why I continue to call her that, considering she’s a dog. Cane went through a phase when she was a couple of years younger where literally everyone wanted to breed their dog with her, so she had, like, sixty litters of puppies. The puppies were cute, but we never got to keep any. But yeah. Now she’s the resident slut to me. I see a lot of her babies romping around the streets sometimes.

It’s quiet. Mom’s probably out hunting, Dad’s probably out shooting, and Thomas must be home, because he never leaves the house without Cane. I walk in circles for a while. I sit on a chair for a few minutes, staring into space. I go over and poke Cane, but she gives me this confused look, so I go back and pace for a few minutes before finally just giving up and going to my room.

Thomas is sitting on his bed, stitching the leg of a pair of trousers. He doesn’t acknowledge me walking in, and I don’t acknowledge him.

I take my shoe off and let it thunk to the floor. “Can you be a little quieter, please,” Thomas drones, not looking up from his stitching.

“Whatever,” I grunt, letting the other shoe fall just as loud. I kick them into a corner, where they lie in disarray with a bunch of my other stuff. I take my time undressing and putting on more comfortable clothes before flopping on my bed with a sigh.

“Can you pick that up?” Thomas asks, pointing his needle at my discarded shirt on the floor. “It’s on my side of the room.”

“Why don’t you do it? You’re closer.”

“Yeah, but it’s yours.”

“It’ll take you two seconds. Just toss it over.”

“I’m not cleaning up after you.”

“Literally two seconds, oh my god! Then it won’t bother you anymore.”

Thomas just sighs and rolls his eyes skyward, like he can’t think of anything more annoying than being in a room with me right now. He folds up the stitched trousers and stands up. “Are you going to bed right now? Really? It’s still light out.”

“I’m tired,” I grumble.

“Tired from what? All you do is nap and bake.”

“Baking’s more work than it sounds like,” I snap. “You wouldn’t know.”

“Whatever,” Thomas sighs, walking toward the door. “I’m not picking your shirt up.”

“You just walked past it!” I yell after him. “You’re the one who wanted it picked up in the first place!” He shuts the door behind him.

He literally walked right past it. He practically walked on it. I fume for a minute or two before deciding it isn’t worth fuming over. Whatever. I’ll pick it up tomorrow morning when I get up.

Damn, it _is_ still light out. 

I tug the covers over my head, stretching out to encompass my whole bed. I can’t sleep all scrunched up. I need space. 

My thoughts return to Ymir, as they often tend to lately. I mean, I don’t obsess over it, but I kind of just idly think about that day. How pathetic the (slippery) naga acted. How it played with Ymir. How Ymir threatened me with horrible death and dismemberment if I ever even attempted to divulge the big secret living in the northwestern cliffs.

I set my jaw firmly. I was tempted today, but there is no way I am going to be the one to change this. No chance am _I_ going to break the silence first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Amazing Maggins did AMAZING artwork for chapter three and I'm literally staring at it with a dopey grin on my face. Gah. Maggins for president. Here: http://maggins.tumblr.com/post/81212530411. I can't thank you enough!
> 
> Naming dogs Cane rejuvenates me.
> 
> Don't worry, the Snakebutt will show his snake butt next chapter.
> 
> This was called Stroller because Jean is a wee babby.


	5. Sequester

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean needs an adult and creeps on people's bodies.
> 
>  **SEQUESTER** | _verb_ | to isolate or hide away someone or something

It’s actually Ymir who breaks the silence first.

I’m just doing what I was told, minding my own business as I bake some bread, and I turn around to grab some cinnamon when I see her standing right behind me.

I just freeze, staring at her. “What the fuck,” I blurt out. “You’re not allowed back here.”

And then I realize that I am alone, with no one else, in a room with Ymir, who is batshit enough to maybe kill me to keep me quiet. “I didn’t say a fuckin’ word,” I say immediately, raising my palms as if this makes me more convincing. “Swear to god.”

“Relax,” Ymir grunts, sauntering forward. “I know you didn’t. I need a favor.”

I blink rapidly at that, tilting my head at her. A favor. Ymir needs a favor from me. “L-Like what? What makes you think I’d do anything fooorr . . . okay you can, uh, put your fist away.”

Ymir lowers her bunched fingers. “Do you remember the way to that clearing?”

I don’t have to ask what _that clearing_ is. “Uh, I guess?”

Ymir nods. “Good. I need you to go talk to him.”

I kind of stare at her for a while before the words really hit me. “Wait, _him_ as in the _naga?”_

“Who do you think, dumbass? I can’t make it up there today; Nile’s all up in my ass about something, and you need to go tell Marco I can’t come.”

“Why?” I demand.

“Because I fucking said so, all right?” Ymir says exasperatedly. “You’re now the only one besides me who knows where Marco is, so I can’t exactly ask anyone else, can I?”

“What, the naga can’t go a week without seeing you?” I demand. “Can’t it just jump to the conclusion that you were busy and go on its merry naga way?”

Ymir gives me a withering look, and it occurs to me that maybe jokes aren’t the best avenue. “He can, idiot, and he has before. But he’s been a bit paranoid about me ever since a certain _someone_ followed me right _to_ him. Nice job, by the way. If I don’t show up he might flip.”

“And you want _me_ to be there when he does?” I ask incredulously. Aww, I hurt the baby naga’s feelings. Ask me if I care. “Fuck that! It’ll chase me down again and actually kill me this time!”

“As long as you talk to him he’s fine, for god’s sake. He only transformed that one time because neither of us were expecting you to be there, which you _shouldn’t_ have been.”

I dimly register that _transformed_ is a weird word to use, but the imminent task before me overshadows my curiosity at her diction. “I don’t want to do this.”

“Too bad,” says Ymir, shrugging. “I don’t have anyone else to ask.”

“I thought you told me to forget I ever saw the naga?” I point out, trying to get her to bend under her own rule.

“And you’ve been very good about that, Jim, but that was before Niles decided he wanted me to watch his pasty ass wherever he goes. Look, you wuss, all you have to do is stop by, tell my Marco I won’t be coming, and then leave. It won’t even take you an hour.”

It’s a little disturbing hearing her talk about the Chief like that; I mean, Niles Dok is pretty pasty, but you don’t go around yelling about it. The bakery has thin walls, and Niles a brigade of burly bodyguards. “I’m at work. I can’t just leave Reiner.”

“I just talked to Reiner,” Ymir drones. “He says it’s fine if you take off for a little bit. He could, you know, actually bake some of the shit at his own bakery instead of flirting with tall dark and sweaty out there.”

 _Shit._ There goes Reiner saving me. “But I don’t _want_ to,” I whine.

“Oh my god, are you literally five years old?”

“Okay, okay, just listen,” I interrupt, raising my hands to silence her. “You’ve got to remember that last time I saw the thing, it shrieked at me and chased me. What the hell makes you think I want to go back there? What if it takes one look and starts trying to eat me again? You’re not going to be around to stop it this time.”

Ymir glowers at me. “It won’t happen again. That one time was a mistake.”

“How do you _know?”_

“Because it was! You think you know my Marco better than _I_ know my Marco? I literally do not have time to argue with you, John. If I don’t hightail it over to the barracks right fuckin’ now, I’ll probably get arrested or some stupid shit. I’ll walk your wimpy ass to the woods if it makes you feel better.”

Ymir is not tall. Actually, I’m pretty sure she’s the tiniest bit shorter than me. But holy hell, do I shrink away at how malcontent she looks. I’m not the most patient guy, and I know how people wasting your time bites.

Ymir chomps her lip (no, not chews, as in she’s anxious; she fucking _chomps_ it), humming thoughtfully, then shrugs. “I guess I’ll just have to get Eren to do it.”

It’s like she just took out a sledgehammer and whaled me with it. She has unknowingly rung my death bell. “Eren knows? Okay, listen, I never said I _wouldn’t_ do it, just that I didn’t _want_ to.”

A smirk crawls its way up the side of Ymir’s mouth. “So you will, then?”

“I guess? Fucking fine, just . . . you _owe_ me. You owe me so much.”

Ymir nods in satisfaction. “Knew you would. Still need an escort?”

“No,” I say hurriedly, trying hard not to imagine how it would look if someone like Eren fucking Jaeger saw Ymir walking me to the woods like I need someone to hold my goddamn hand. “Whatever. So . . . just, what do I do? How do I find him?”

Oh god, I’m signing my own death sentence. I’m asking for instruction. I’m actually going to do this. I am getting even more entangled in this fucking shit that I didn’t need to know about in the first place.

“Get to that log and whistle loud and clear, Jimbles. He’ll come. If all else fails, remember that I tripped over a snake in the garden. I’m going to head out now. You lay an ill-intentioned finger on a single fiber of my brother’s hair, I just might kill you, you got that?”

“Got it,” I grumble, feeling relieved as she turns to leave. Whatever the fuck she said about tripping over snakes or some wild shit is beyond me. Then I remember something. “Hey, wait, you forgot these,” I call, stooping under the counter to grab the wrapped bundle of her gross-ass chocolate rolls I baked in preparation for her coming. I toss them to her and she catches it out of reflex.

She stares at it for a moment, then back at me. “The fuck is this?”

“Your chocolate.”

Then, at grievous cost to both my baker’s pride and what I’d thought was my perception of other people, Ymir’s face wrinkles in disgust that perfectly mirrors mine. “Ew, why the fuck would I want these?”

“Wh- you take them every week!”

Ymir flicks her wrist, haphazardly tossing the rolls back at the general vicinity of my shins. I just barely manage to scoop them out of the air, affronted. “What the hell?”

 _“I_ don’t like that shit, ugh. Sweet bread is fucking disgusting. They’re for Marco; he loves these things. Take them with you.”

She walks out before she can see my gaping mouth. I’m really glad Reiner isn’t here because it looks like my jaw’s dislocated. I do math in my head (a feat, I know), my lips mouthing numbers.

Holy fucking god. Reiner and I have been inadvertently baking chocolate rolls for the naga for _years._

Ymir pops her head back in, grinning, making me jump. “By the way,” she chirps, “Eren has no clue about Marco. Bye bye!” And with that, her head withdraws and she disappears.

“Mother fucker,” I murmur to the empty room. The shelves and lightly powdered rows of pastries don’t seem to want to answer me.

v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v

I’m a fucking idiot.

I literally am. I cannot, physically or mentally, imagine what the fuck was going through my head when I agreed to this. Ymir even explicitly _said_ I was the only one who knew about the naga’s true nature, and yet I believed her when she contradicted it not two seconds later because she said the magic word: Eren.

I’m so angry at myself as I stomp through the woods it’s not even funny. I went into the forest the same way Ymir did, due west, and I had the good sense to make sure someone was around when I first entered the forest, because when I inevitably don’t return I’m going to need some definite witnesses. _Oh hey, yeah, we saw the incredibly hot and mysteriously lonesome Jean Kirschtein go in the woods right here. His sorry ass hasn’t been seen in three days? I bet something went down. We’d better get the entire village together to organize a search party. God knows what this little hamlet would be without that hot body walking the streets._

When they find my bitten- and scratched-up remains I hope Mikasa weeps over my body and how she was an idiot for not getting in my pants when she could have.

Unless it swallows me whole. Don’t snakes swallow you whole? Oh, Christ, don’t think about it.

I’m walking way faster than I did the first time I stalked this path, which consisted of rolling and ducking behind Ymir, pretty much throwing my back with the effort of remaining unseen. I glance behind me, trying to see if it really is all that plausible that I could’ve snuck behind Ymir for so long. The vegetation is thinner than it was weeks ago, so it’s kind of hard to tell. But it seems Ymir is so confident in her scary storytelling abilities that she didn’t even think to make sure she wasn’t being tailed, or she’s an idiot, or I’m just that stealthy. Probably the first one.

I should’ve brought a satchel or something. Holding this bundle of rolls is getting old.

Maybe if I pretend I got lost, Ymir won’t blame me for turning around now.

. . . Yet I still keep walking. Fuck me.

I stop and peer up through the nodding canopy to check the sun. In a society like ours, surrounded by thick foliage, one of the first skills kids are universally taught is how to distinguish where you are by the position of the sun. You can give a nine year old a piece of paper and ask her to plot the trajectory of the sun of every day of the year and she’ll be able to do it perfectly (writing her name is another matter; reading and writing aren’t all that big here).

It’s barely midday. I barely started my workday with Reiner. How Ymir had managed to convince him to let me go for an hour or two is beyond me. She probably threatened him. Punched him. Hell, maybe she blew him.

Oh. Ew. No no no, I’m not going to think about that.

Ew. Ew. Ew. It’s like imagining your parents having sex.

I glance up at the sun again, then at the blue mountaintops that are only just visible past the twitching and hissing leaves. It’s probably time to turn to the right now if I want to get to the cliffs, as much as I _don’t_ want to, but like a good little soldier I trudge to the right. Ymir owes me. She owes me like hell.

I’ve never walked so much in the woods before. I mean, a lot of kids get taken on some minor hunting trips, but those are just to assess our skills and see what we’ve got. Eren and Mikasa and the rest of our gang were all together on these trips, usually, when we were twelve or thirteen. When it became pretty obvious that most of us lacked any sort of talent whatsoever (except Mikasa, of course), those trips ended pretty early in favor of our parents taking over. It’s technically your parents’ responsibility to make sure you’re not a useless lump. Dad’s the only one who knows how to shoot in our family, but our lessons didn’t go very well. I don’t know. He’s impatient.

He wanted (and still wants) me to go with someone else he considers better. Hunting parties are usually public affairs, and gather in the square before disembarking for anyone to join in. Minors have to ask first, though, and can easily get refused. Dad wants me to “learn from the masters” or whatever, so I guess that means he doesn’t want to deal with me and just wants to hand me off to someone else. Thanks, pop.

Predictably, I still don’t know how to do shit, because I’m a lazy ass. But that’s okay, I guess. I’m only fifteen; I’ve got time.

Walking in the woods is a lot more tedious than you’d think. Birds twitter and branches rustle, twigs and leaves snap underfoot with every thunderous step, and everything is green. What else is new.

The more I walk, the more I’m aware that I just have further to run if (when?) the naga decides to give chase. Disbelief and denial sets in once again as my eyes dart around, checking desperately to see if anything moves suspiciously.

Ymir owes me so much.

Resentment makes me a little more pissed than I would be normally. If all had gone according to plan, I would’ve seen Ymir hunt and magically absorb her amazing killing abilities. No, instead, I almost die, and now I’ve got no plan about how to improve my standing at all.

And there it is, the clearing. The branches thin, and sunlight peeks liberally through the tree trunks. If I squint I can see a blurry shape in the distance, a line of gray against the shifting lime-green grass.

Paranoia returns, slithering up and down my spine with a cold tingle. I glance over both my shoulders hurriedly, scanning the forest nervously. I don’t see any naga, but I’m going to soon. Oh my god, I can’t believe I’m actually here. _Alone._

I scurry to a tree at the edge of the clearing, peeking around it, swallowing anxiously. My heart hammers in my chest, clattering my teeth together with every beat. The birdsong has quieted here, as if the birds are all holding their tiny breaths, waiting for one arrival to become two.

Slowly, with deliberate footsteps, I tiptoe into the clearing, my ears pricked for any noise. As the log grows nearer I trot to it, leaning against it gratefully upon reaching it, needing something big to put me between myself and . . . whatever. Whatever might come.

I sit on the very edge of the log, my knees wobbling a little bit, ready to spring up if anything makes a single goddamn sound. Oh god, what’s the last thing I said to my mom and dad? I can’t remember. I never picked up that shirt that was on Thomas’s side of the room. Holy wow, do I wish I’m there.

I lick my lips nervously, sparing a few more glances over my shoulder. _Well, might as well get it over with,_ I decide gloomily, and raise my hand to my mouth. I stall for another minute like the wuss I am, clenching and unclenching my hand, before deciding, _Fuck it, I’m Jean motherfucking Kirschtein!_ and, bringing my fingers to my lips, let loose a piercing whistle.

Well, fuck. I went and did it. No turning back now. I grit my teeth and chuckle nervously to myself. “Nice work, Kirschtein, nice _nice_ job,” I mutter to myself. “We’re going to rock this. Let’s gooo.”

My stomach is in knots, my sides shaking. My fingers worry at the package of chocolate rolls in my hands, turning it over and over in agitation. _Ymir couldn’t come today. Ymir couldn’t come today. Ymir asked me to come and tell you this. Have a nice day. Ymir tripped over a snake in the garden. Have a nice day._

 _Crunch._ I jump a foot in the air, nearly falling off the log in my haste to look around wildly. I’m still alone. Adrenaline races through my body, electricity throbbing painfully through my chest and fingers. My guts are wrapped tightly in a knot, and my heart feels like it’s trying to vault right out of my throat.

I look down. My hands are wrapped tight around the pastries, one hand clutched in a tighter fist than the other, and I realize that all I’d done was crush a roll through the packaging in agitation.

I breathe out a shaky chuckle. Wow, way to go, Kirschtein. You scared the shit out of yourself because you made a pastry explode with your bare hands. Way to fucking go.

I look up. The naga stares back at me.

 _“Fucking_ Christ,” I blurt out tremulously, staggering to my feet. The naga shrinks back, its dark eyes wide and fleeting. I scramble to the top of the log, following some instinctual need in the face of an adversary to get to higher ground. How the fuck did it just sneak _up_ on me like that? Oh god, it’s right _there._

We stare at each other.

The naga’s not even fifteen feet away, low to the ground, its back hunched and hands wringing, pretty much the same position as when I’d last seen it. It’s crouched so low that it looks like a bowed torso sticking out of the ground. It stares at me like I’m a killer, and I see its throat jump a little as it swallows jerkily. Its long shiny tail writhes at the end far behind it, and I hope that doesn’t mean the same thing as when a cat wiggles its rump.

I’m supposed to be saying something. I know I am. I’m standing on this log like a loser, clutching those dumb chocolate pastries to my chest like they can protect me, leaning back so far I’m almost toppling backwards. “Uh,” I begin eloquently. “Uh . . .”

The naga’s eyes, shadowed by its dark hair, flit over my face, my hands, my whole body. It never blinks. It’s picking at its fingers, and I can see them visibly shaking. It glances at the ground, then to the side, then back up at me before it swallows again. It starts moving forward.

If it’s even possible, I lean further back. Why the _fuck_ is it approaching? Why’s it doing it so slowly? Is it taunting me? I shuffle backwards, letting out an exclamation and flailing when one of my feet slips off the surface of the log before regaining my balance. The naga falters at the sound of my sharp utterance, then continues its smooth glide. God, the movement is so _unnatural._ No bobbing, just a slow, slippery slide.

I bend my legs, my knees wobbling so hard I feel like I’m about to keel right over, ready to jump away if it gets too close or I see any sudden movements. It’s the weirdest fucking thing to see it move in such a way, and it must be only possible because of its snake half, which I guess is much more flexible. Its human and snake halves are practically at a right angle, like if it has human legs they’d just disappear into the ground.

“D-Don’t,” I stutter, my jaw so tight it hurts, as the naga draws so close I could touch it if I leaned forward and reached. I can count the freckles on its face; I can track the brown-to-blue gradient of its eyes. Its nose is really round. I need a supervisor. _I need a supervisor._ I need Ymir to be here to rein the thing back. My heartbeat thunders through my ears, shaking my temples. My tongue and jaw hurt.

I freeze as it slowly starts raising itself, its snake half steadily feeding its ascension, its light plated belly absurdly shiny and silver. The edges of its belly scales lift off its body a little, like you could put your finger in there and just tear it off. Maybe I could totally do that, you know, as a self-defense thing. If I could bring myself to touch it even for a second.

The naga stops when we’re at eye level, its mouth set in a firm line, its eyes still tremulously wide. I almost wish it would just fucking _blink._ I’m holding the pastries in both hands, raised a little to the side, like I’m about to swing them. Yeah, that’s rich, I’m going to defend myself from a giant snake monster with fucking bread.

Slowly, shakily, the naga raises its hand to hover outstretched between our chests.

My eyes dart between its hand and its face, trying to guess what the fuck it thinks it’s doing. It’s like it’s about to poke me with four fingers. What the fuck. Someone get this thing away from me. Why am I standing _on_ the log and not on the other side so something’s nicely in between us?

The naga’s brow furrows, and it glances between its hand and me. “Th-“ it chokes, then falls silent.

“Wha?” slips out of my mouth.

“The . . . hand. Thing,” it stutters. “With the . . . the . . .” It trails off into a strangled whisper. Its outstretched hand moves stiffly up, then stiffly down, the motion deliberate and awkward, looking obviously unpracticed.

Oh, shit. “Uh,” I say, swallowing. “A . . . handshake?”

“Hand . . . shake,” it parrots, its clumsy accent turning the word into a messy, thick-tongued string of stretched vowels. “Um . . . that.”

It moves its freckled hand toward me again, just an inch or two, biting its lip. I open my mouth, not even sure of what to say or how to speak. What, am I that popular that the naga wants a _second_ handshake? I don’t want to touch it again.

I don’t want to argue with it. It’s not _my_ responsibility to teach it manners. But judging by what I can discern from its human face, it’s getting even more agitated, though I can’t tell if it’s from impatience or anxiety. It fidgets, clenching and unclenching its hand. It’s obviously just as scared as I am, but scared animals lash out.

I think about black claws and gulp noisily. Keeping a grip on the package of chocolate disgustingness with my left hand, I slowly proffer my right in grudging invitation. Our hands meet awkwardly in the middle, grasping lightly for a few seconds as we once again act out the tensest handshake the world has ever known. Its hand is drier than bone. We both let go really quickly, and I resist the urge to wipe my hand on my trousers. No use offending the thing when it’s staring right at me.

It lowers itself back down, gliding backward until there’s a respectable distance between us. I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. “Um,” it says, beginning to wring its hands again. “Where’s, um, where’s Ymir?”

“She, uh,” I begin, then cough. This is what I’m here for. “Ymir, she, uh . . . told me to come here to tell _you_ that . . . she can’t make it today. She got held up, you know, had to do something else . . .”

The naga slumps at my words, then looks at me with a little less fear than before. “She told you?”

“Mm-hmm,” I hum, nodding slowly. “So, uh, don’t expect her or anything.”

The naga tilts its head stiffly, staring at me. Okay, that’s not creepy at all. “Did you do something to her?”

“What?”

“Ymir. Did you do something to her?” it asks steadily.

“What do you mean, do something to her?” I ask, unnerved. The naga doesn’t look very scared right now. Actually, it looks kind of . . . aggressive. “She literally just went up to me and told me to tell you this. I mean, I was at _work,_ for god’s sake, and the day had barely even started, so-“

Whoa, okay, the snake’s definitely a little bit closer than it was two seconds ago. This is not okay. This is really not okay. “Uh . . . what’re you- yo, um, can you stop doing that? Please?”

It’s inching forward bit by bit, staring really creepily at me, its eyes hard and glittering and mouth set, a creepy tilt to its head. Oh god, what did I say? “Whoa, okay, stop,” I mutter hurriedly, leaning back again. “I’m serious! I-I’m not lying, she- she walked in and was like, I don’t know, talking about- about whistling and shit, and Niles- and then she called me Jimbles, and some weird shit about tripping over snakes or something, I don’t know-“

The naga stops, brow raised. “What did you say?”

“Wha? She-“ Oh. “She told me, like, if everything fails or something, to remember that she tripped over a snake once. In a garden.” I screw up my face in confusion. “I don’t know what the fuck she was talking about.”

The snake’s staring into space, which is good, because then it’s not staring at me like it wants to swallow me. “Oh. Okay.” Some of the tension drains out of its shoulders and I let out a shaky breath in relief. Whatever I said, whatever that random-ass phrase means, it subdued the creature. It looked like it was actually going to attack me. I’m going to kill Ymir, I swear to god.

“’Oh, okay?’” I repeat incredulously. “Were you- actually, you know, never mind. Look, uh, here,” I mutter, holding up the package, eager to get home. “You want these?”

The snake perks up immediately, its eyes bright, and it actually smiles a little. “Yes! Um, if that’s okay.”

“I don’t want ‘em,” I grumble, doing that little hand gesture that indicates I’m going to toss the package. When I let it fly toward the naga – a nice gentle underhand throw, you know, easily catchable – it doesn’t move at all, and just kind of watches it arc closer until it whacks it in the chest and falls to the ground. The naga stares down at it blankly, then back at me.

Holy fuck, this bitch doesn’t even know how to catch things. “Uh, I thought you were going to grab that.”

“Oh,” it mumbles dumbly, and stoops to pick up the package. “Um . . . thank you.”

What, does Ymir not throw stuff at it? All right. Whatever. I don’t judge. I’m not here to judge these crazy fucking people. I’m actually free to go home. I slowly step down from the log, swallowing. “So,” I try to say perkily. “I’m just going to . . . go . . . now.”

The naga stares at me, now clutching the package to its chest kind of like how I was before. It nods stiffly, sidling away from me, the loops of its scales sliding sideways, flattening grass. Holy Christ, its body is so _long,_ winding and shiny through the tall grass. How does it even keep track of all that? I can barely run without tripping over my goddamn feet.

“Oh, mm . . . okay,” it says quietly, avoiding eye contact with me. _Fuck yeah,_ I think, starting to walk a little faster right the fuck out of there, kind of halfway facing it, you know? I’m not comfortable with turning my back to it, even though I look like an idiot with my chest twisted sideways. I’m practically to the tree line when I hear behind me, “W-Wait!”

Oh my _Christ,_ what. I freeze, slowly turning my head to look at it. “Y-Yeah?”

The naga looks even more uncomfortable than it usually does. It’s turned around to face me, its tail coiled all around its human torso like a roll of rope. “Uh,” it says dumbly. “Can . . . can you help me with something?” It winces immediately once the words are out of its mouth. “I mean, I’m sorry, I was going to ask Ymir but she’s not here . . .”

“Help with what?” I croak, feeling glued to the ground, seriously hoping it’s something I can refuse. I wonder if Reiner is annoyed with me by now, even if he’s the nicest guy ever. Everyone’s got their limits. Not to mention the fact that I really _really_ am feeling the urge to just tell the thing to fuck off and start running. I’m starting to hate the woods.

“There’s this . . . tree,” the snake says slowly, and I just want to yell at it to hurry up already. “It was dead, but I guess there was a storm last night because it toppled and fell . . . and it’s blocking a _path_ I really need to, um, get to. Er . . . do you think you could help me get it out of the way?” It adds hurriedly, its hands splayed for what I guess is reassurance, “You don’t have to, really, it’s just that I guess Ymir won’t be here for another week, and I’ve been trying to move it by myself all morning but I can’t . . . really . . . yeah.” It trails off lamely, staring at the ground again, its brows furrowed.

You’ve got to be kidding me. I blink hard, staring around at the forest, clenching and unclenching my hands. God, I just want to go home, and nothing this naga says or does will make me forget what exactly happened the first time we saw each other. Ymir can bullshit all she wants, but I remember jaws that opened so far they hid a collarbone and claws longer than my fingers, and that kind of shit doesn’t make you eager to hand out favors.

But that shit also makes you remember it at the worst and best possible times. Like right now, when I’m wondering just how the naga will react if I say no.

Sure, it looks shy and innocent and whatever now, but it did before when it was playing with Ymir, and when it offered me that handshake just now. And look how quickly it turned from that kind of innocence to a sudden threat. In my head I see eyes so glassy they seem blind, and a tilt of its head that’s way too uncanny.

I don’t really want to spend more time with it. I want to get the fuck out of here so I don’t have yet another chance to fuck stuff up. But . . . it backed off when I recited that weird phrase. Maybe it’s a kind of code, telling it to calm the fuck down and please do not attack the speaker. Or probably just reassurance that I have Ymir’s seal of approval. Either one works.

I chance a look back at the snake. Its lips are pulled back and down in distress, and I get the impression that if it possessed feet it would be shuffling them. It glances up at me bashfully from under its dark bangs, and we both simultaneously look away awkwardly upon eye contact.

“Well, uh . . . how long will it take?” I ask finally.

The naga shakes its head. “Not long. I just need to get it out of the way, that’s- that’s all.”

“I really should get going. . . .”

“I-It won’t even take a few minutes, but . . .”

Okay, now it just looks like a kicked puppy.

“You’re sure you can’t do it on your own?” I mumble halfheartedly, feeling defeat creep up on me, nudging a mound of dirt with my foot. I’m just getting pushed around by freckled losers today, aren’t I?

It shrugs slowly, starting to play with its fingers again. “I tried, but it’s a sort of job that needs two people . . . doing it. If . . . that makes any sense.”

I can barely understand what the fuck it’s saying because of its accent. I roll my eyes skyward one last time, as if begging a giant bird to swoop upon us and take me home (or eat me, I really don’t care), before sighing and edging forward a little. “Well, all right then. Whatever.”

The naga perks up like it can’t believe I said yes. _I_ can’t believe I said yes. “R-Really? Great! T-Thank you!” It draws its hands up into fists by its ribs, shaking them in excitement like a child; I see a flurry of movement in the grass and realize the tip of its brown tail is doing the same thing, writhing around in the same unchecked enthusiasm.

We stare at each other in silence for a long moment, my face blank and its lightly beaming. Birds chatter noisily around us, and a cricket chooses to sing us a raspy song. “So, uh, where’s this tree?” I ask after a full ten seconds pass by.

“Oh! Right,” the naga sputters, and, suddenly putting the bag in its mouth, it whirls, moving quickly in its awkwardness, and the movement is jarring and makes my hair stand on end. The naga slithers to the tree line with a swiftness that’s extremely creepy, its long body weaving large slippery arcs through the grass, its human torso very close to the ground. It walks on its hands, as if it’s moving on all fours if it isn’t half snake, the bag of pastries hanging from its mouth almost comically. It seems to realize that it just completely left me behind because it rears its torso back up and regards me sheepishly, taking the package out of its mouth and making a pathetic little hand gesture that might’ve been beckoning.

Well, I’m glad I didn’t decide to tell it to fuck itself and run. That shit is _fast._

I swallow again for the fifteenth time today and march after it, stiff and rigid, trying not to feel like I’m getting wrapped up in more shit than I want to deal with. When I’m almost at its tail the snake turns and heads into the woods, the shadows of the trees flashing patterns on its banded scales, turning different sections of its body black or brown. I try not to think about the fact that we’re heading even farther north, pretty much the exact opposite of the way I _want_ to go. Whatever, it’s not a big deal. I’m just helping this dumb snake out. I’m being a nice person. Oh, Eren, you built a little horse figure for Reiner’s amusement? Aren’t you cute. A snake monster asked me for help and I graciously said yes. Now _that’s_ kindness.

I’m trying to think of a possible way to spin this in my favor with Mikasa while simultaneously trying to ignore the fact that the naga keeps turning its head to look at me sheepishly from the corner of its dark eyes, averting its gaze quickly when I notice it. Holy shit, isn’t it annoying, moving forward and weaving like that at the same time? Is it really that hard to, like, slither straight?

I kind of want to ask what the hell its problem is that it would see me for the first time and chase me with claws and fangs and shit, but I swallow the words as quickly as I think about them. Asking what all that was about might . . . I don’t know, induce the same state, I guess. I just have a bad feeling about reminding it of its berserk actions.

Leaves rustle noisily under its winding body, and I guess it must be super heavy because it leaves a trail of flattened soil behind it. I stumble along behind it and a little to the side, trying not to trip over thick brambles. Wherever we’re going, it’s obviously been untraveled by anyone except the naga, because the bushes are thick and intricately linked here, with no sign of a path anywhere. A tangle of thorns scrapes against my ankle, stinging me momentarily, and I grumble something as I yank my foot out of there.

The naga looks at me curiously, and I glare back until it looks away. _It_ has no trouble plowing through all this, I see. It just flattens the brush underneath its thick scales, and it doesn’t seem to hurt the thing any, because it’s not taking care to avoid less than optimal sharp objects. It must be weird, having skin so hard you can’t even feel thorns. Especially on your stomach, too. I can’t even handle blunt objects on my stomach. I’m ticklish. Don’t tell anyone.

The naga’s hands crumple the bag up noisily, its fingers working anxiously. It glances at me, then down, then at me again, like it can’t bring itself to say something. It slows down a little, moving a little more in a smooth straight line. “Um,” it croaks, staring at its hands. “I don’t know if- if Ymir told you . . . or anything, but . . . my name’s Marco.”

“She told me,” I grunt, and let silence fall.

The snake doesn’t seem to want to, though. Its lips are all bunched up, like it’s trying to keep itself from speaking, before it blurts out loudly, “What’s your name?”

“Jean,” I grumble lowly, hoping it heard so I don’t have to repeat myself.

“Jjjeeaan,” it repeats slowly. Oh my god, its accent is _butchering_ my name. “Jean. Jean! That’s a nice name,” it says enthusiastically. I just grunt in reply.

The naga lifts the package of pastries up to its chest uncertainly, looking at me. “Um, can I eat these?”

What the fuck. “They’re yours.”

“Okay . . . thanks,” it mumbles, and keeps staring at me like it’s waiting for me to yell at it for doing something wrong as it slowly opens the bag. The paper crinkles tediously, and the hair on my neck stands up; Christ, it’s easier to just tear the damn thing open and get it over with.

Slowly, very slowly, painfully slowly, the naga reaches in the bag, still staring at me like I might attack it. It takes out a roll (literally how the fuck does anyone like sweet bread) and brings it up to its mouth. Wow, if I thought the sound of crinkling paper was annoying, the crunch as the naga takes the most sluggish bite the world has ever known is way worse.

“Why are you staring at me?” I ask, trying to mask my nervousness (and almost tripping over a fucking root because I’m distracted), because don’t wild animals stare at your eyes when they’re about to attack or some shit?

The naga jolts, like it hadn’t realized what it was doing. “Oh, sorry,” it squeaks, mouth full, quickly averting its gaze. God, the way it doesn’t blink is fucking creepy.

“These are really good,” it continues hurriedly, not bothering to swallow before speaking, and I see a few crumbs go spraying from its mouth. Slick. “They used to be okay, but lately they’ve gotten much better. Crispier and sweeter. Ymir says someone new is making them now. I guess that’s why they’re different. They were kind of soggy before.”

“Well, good,” I say smugly, surprised at this revelation and mildly (mildly! Not a lot!) pleased. “I make them now.”

The naga looks at me in wide-eyed surprise, swallowing. “You _do?_ It’s _you?”_ it gasps, tilting its head comically. “Oh! They are really good!”

“They are,” I agree, not disliking where this has gone. I mean, it’s one thing to get a compliment, but another to get one when the guy giving it doesn’t even know it’s you. Plus there’s something about the animalistic naivety of the thing that convinces me it’s not lying for my benefit. I don’t really think it knows how to lie to me. Or even talk to me normally, or to anyone. Well, with only pushy, violent Ymir for companion, it’s no wonder the thing doesn’t behave like the human being it halfway is.

The naga stuffs the rest of the roll it’s been eating halfway into its mouth and digs through the bag for another one. Withdrawing it, it suddenly stops slithering forward and jerks its body to the right, toward me; I jump, my heart skipping a beat as it’s suddenly right next to me, its torso raised a little above the level of mine. Its snake half is so dark and patterned, except for its wide creamy belly. It practically shoves the roll in my face. “Mmpfh?” it grunts questionably past the pastry in its mouth, its cheeks ridiculously full, crumbs on its lips.

“Uh, no thanks,” I say shakily, my hands raised. “I don’t like them.”

“Mmmh?” the naga squeaks again, tilting its head and looking dismayed. It looks down at the chocolate in its hand like it can’t imagine how anyone could not love the monstrosities.

“Too sweet for me,” I explain lowly. “I don’t know; they’re gross.” I shrug. “More for you, I guess.”

The naga swallows hugely, noisily, considering that, and perks up. “Thank you for them!” it squeaks happily, looking down at me with shy enthusiasm, its brow scrunched up and mouth curled up in a toothless smile.

With that kind of glee, honestly, it’s easy to forget the fact that it’s got a tail instead of legs. It’s jarring how much its expressions can look so human.

The naga edges away shyly and continues his winding slither, and I continue following him. He keeps shooting me furtive glances again, his eyes roving over my face and quickly looking away when I look back at him. “What?” I finally demand.

The naga winces at being caught. “Uh,” he stutters. “Your hair is . . . funny.”

Like an idiot my hands reach up to touch my hair, as if to understand what the fuck he’s talking about by fondling the subject matter. “What? My hair’s awesome.”

“It looks strange,” the naga mumbles, drifting a little closer. “It’s all dark and short on the sides, but-“ He pats the top of his head slowly. “-here, it’s all long and light? How do you do that? Does it grow naturally like that?”

“Uh,” I reply dumbly, before clearing my throat. “Uh, I just trim further down, I guess . . . I mean, my hair’s this light color, but if you cut it short it looks darker, I guess.” Thomas makes fun of me for my hair, and I make fun of him for his bushy sideburns. It’s a fair agreement.

“Oh.” The naga’s own hair isn’t styled; it’s just kind of there, long and unkempt, though it isn’t dirty. And who’s going to do his hair anyway, Ymir? Ymir would just tie it back all sloppy like hers and call it a day. At least I make an effort to look fine as hell.

The naga looks satisfied with my answer, though he keeps looking at my hair. I’m getting really self-conscious really quickly. I swear to god, if he reaches over and tries to touch it, I’ll bite him.

. . . It’s pretty dark in the woods right now, but I’m pretty sure that’s the only hair he has. Like, okay, I realize this is a weird observation, but he’s got no hair on his chest or anything. Like a girl or something (not that I would personally know). I mean, the naga looks (its human half, at least; I don’t know shit about the logistics of its snake half) about my age, and even I have got some peach fuzzies. Oh my god, does he even have hair on his arms? He _doesn’t._ This is weird. Oh, wow, we’re staring like creepers at each other’s bodies. I’m just as bad.

The naga appears to have finished off his rolls. He swallows and lets the paper bag drop to the dirt, leaving it behind. He smiles shyly at me again in what I guess is gratitude. Wow, if only the guys in Trost appreciated my baking as much.

The area we’re in has a lot less trees than the thick brush we were in before, and the ground becomes lighter and sandier under my feet. The ragged, irregular faces of big rocks protrude from the ground at increasing intervals, and I realize we’re near the cliffy mountain, the original spot where the naga is rumored in my village to dwell. “Do you live here?” I ask him. “In the cliffs, I mean?”

He turns to me in surprise, perhaps startled I actually initiated the conversation this time. “Not at the top,” he mumbles. “I go up there every morning to warm up, but the tree fell on the pathway. I need to get up there.”

I don’t ask what it means by “warm up” as unblocked sunlight shines upon us, and I squint around at the sudden change in scenery. We’ve just departed from the woods proper into a wide, expansive field dotted by sparse bushes, and before us is the shallow upward curve of the beginning of that relatively small mountain, the smallest sibling of its brothers that surround our valley. It’s mostly bare of trees except for sparse copses, with large formations of black rock jutting out of its surface at random intervals. They’re really interesting to look at; I’ve never seen rocks so big. I’ve never been this close to a mountain before; I stare dumbly up at it, at its massive rolling sides, its sheer dimensions that are pretty alien to me, being raised in a valley. I feel humbled like never before.

The naga’s still moving, so I jog to catch up, not that I could possibly lose him; there’s pretty much nowhere for anything to hide. Every so often he turns his head to make sure I’m still there. Sometimes he waves halfheartedly, but turns back too quickly to see if I return it. Not that I do. I’m too busy staring around at all this open space.

Also, I was right. He’s like a hairless mole rat. I guess that’s what happens when you’re half reptile. You don’t grow hair.

The naga and I begin to climb up the mountain, trekking across the steep cheek of the curved earth, walking along what I soon recognize as a beaten path, obviously manmade (nagamade?) because of its smoothness and deliberate placement. It winds back and forth in sharp angles up the mountain so we’re practically going sideways and hardly up at all.

There’s so much open _space._ I can see so far.

Pretty soon we’re surrounded by titanic crumbles of black boulders above and below that look hazardous to even touch. The ground is smooth, short brown grass studded with black stones. I glance to my left; we’re already fifty feet above the level forest floor, and it affords an admittedly nice view of the valley, at all the different colors of the treetops. It’s interesting to see this new perspective of the place I’ve spent all my life. I can’t see Trost, but I do see a large section very far away where the trees thin out, so I assume that’s it. I wonder if anyone can see us, actually; the spot we’re in is absolutely bare, and it can’t be that hard to spot two moving figures against the one-colored mountain. It’s a bit windier up here, and sunnier; I can’t decide whether to feel hot or cold.

This has taken a much longer while than the naga originally promised. A few minutes, my ass. “Are we almost there?”

“Yes! Just up ahead,” the naga assures me eagerly, continuing his winding path, slithering right over the roots of a gnarled, solitary tree that grows perpendicular to the ground for a foot or two before sharply turning skyward. I make sure not to trip on those roots; I wouldn’t want to brain myself on a jutting one, or to stumble and start rolling. It’s steep enough to make stopping a rapid descent lethal, and the only thing to break my fall would be big-ass rocks. What a dumb way to go. I’m helping out a snake monster and die because I trip over a fucking tree or roll down a hill.

The path is too narrow for me to walk beside the naga, so I keep just after his thin tail. I mean, it’s not that narrow that I have trouble walking, but it does force you to keep single file. I can’t stop looking at the tip of its tail. At the whole tail, actually, since the human part is now thirty feet ahead, leaving thirty feet of winding body to make up my view. Its shiny surface is sinewy and lined with muscle, shallowly pointed at the spine and densely scaled, made up of snugly fitted brown pebbles that identically shift and glint in the sun. There are several odd, thin, winding dark gaps in his scales near the area where his human and snake parts merge. It’s so intricate that the amateur artist in me weeps at the prospect of adding that much detail if I were ever to draw a snake. Oh, shit, don’t tell anyone I draw either. I’m shit at it.

I get fed up at one point and decide to skip the long turn and go vertically up to the next pass, which is the worst decision I’ve ever made in my life. I slip, like, six times and basically have to crawl up on all fours through the dry, brittle grass to avoid sliding and tumbling to my death. The naga, who has taken the long way and therefore been overtaken, approaches me slowly with a confused look on his face. “Are you all right?” he asks, watching me doubled over and panting. “It’s more difficult to get up that way.”

“I noticed,” I gasp, my calves aching. I’ve never exercised so much in my life.

He skirts around me, still looking concerned, and continues up. He’s moving with his chest bowed nearly flat to the ground, walking on his hands in a familiar way; his arms are a fair bit thicker than mine, so he must be much stronger. He said he comes here every day. He slithers up and down this mountain daily? What am I doing with my life?

His human spine is really weird. Every vertebra sticks out of his skin an inch or two, forming a line of dark blunt spikes all the way down his back, with the longest between his shoulder blades. He’s got all kinds of weird fucked up anatomy. I’m still trying to get over the fact that he can just spontaneously grow claws. Who the fuck does that?

I do a bit of math. Ymir’s been talking about the naga since as long as I can remember. “Hey,” I say quietly to get his attention. When he turns his head I ask, “How old are you?”

“Sixteen,” he answers, and his eyebrows scrunch together. “How old are you?”

“Fifteen,” I mumble, a little miffed. I was twelve when Ymir told me about her scars. I was lying awake at night scared of a thirteen-year-old un-socialized chocolate-loving hair-admiring handshaking kid.

A huge black mass of rough rock claws the sky to our right, one a little bigger and wider than the others all around us, and the naga’s path heads right toward it. I lean around him to look and see the path feed into a narrow, zigzagged strip winding up among the craggy crevices, like a waterfall of grass amidst dark rock. It’s almost as steep as the cliff itself. I slow. “We’re not climbing that, are we?” I ask incredulously. I can vividly imagine myself slipping and dying horrifically.

The naga turns and tilts his head at me again. I’ve literally never seen a human being do it that much and to that degree in my life. “Yes?” he replies questioningly, like it’s obvious. Well, hey, don’t fucking judge me for not trekking mountains every day, you piece of shit snake.

“I can’t climb that. I’ll die.”

The naga pouts a little bit. “It’s not that steep. Do you want me to go first? I can point out all the handholds . . .”

“Uh . . . sure,” I mutter, gesturing for him to continue. If anyone’s going to slip and die, let it be someone whose name is not Jean Kirschtein.

He turns and winds his way to the base of the path, and then, with obviously practiced skill and barely even a pause, lifts his torso high into the air and starts hauling himself up, his hands grasping little alcoves in the rock, rising quickly and steadily with what looks like next to no effort. His giant tail slides up and pools and bunches on any level surface it can find, like feet finding ledges, pushing him up from below at the same time.

When he reaches a spot where the path levels out he settles, his tail curling up tightly underneath him, and turns to me and waves shyly. “It isn’t as difficult as it looks, I promise,” he calls down.

“All right,” I grumble, approaching the rock like it’s a live thing. Wow, where do I even start with this? I scramble up the shadowed part at the bottom that’s not sheer like the rest and look up anxiously. Is it too late to call this quits? The naga looks down at me, his head tilted in that exaggerated comic way. Damn, he’s high. He’s like twenty feet up.

Grimacing, I tentatively stoop over and try to crawl upwards, but my toes skid downward and my stomach flies into my throat as I choke back a yelp. “Shit shit _shit,”_ I grunt under my breath, my fingertips painful, reaching for the wall to my right to climb upward. There’s a hand-sized hole in its surface with a mouth that looks unnaturally smooth; it must be one of the handholds the naga uses. I grip it with my hand, trying not to imagine what kind of creepy crawlies might be lying and clicking in wait in this cool hole, right next to my fingers.

I haul myself up a step and nearly screech when I look up and see the naga’s right in front of me, hanging upside down and hugging the wall, staring at me. His tail runs up the cliff and wraps around a rock; he must have lowered himself down, using his own body as a rope. “Hello,” he says, like this is completely fucking normal. “You, um. You look like you are having trouble. And that’s okay! I mean, I have fallen off here so many times-“

“I can do it fine,” I snap, and my terrible traitor of a foot chooses that moment to slip, and I actually _do_ screech this time as I jerk downward. The naga’s hands close tightly on my upper arm before I can truly fall and I dangle there like a moron, kicking my feet and gaping up at him. “Not fine. _Not fine.”_

“It’s okay; I’ve got you!” he says lightly, probably trying to be reassuring, smiling widely at me over his outstretched arm. He begins to withdraw, sliding backwards up the path, and my arm is pinched painfully under his fingers as it takes pretty much all of my weight. It’s hard to be helpful when there’s literally no place to put my feet or hands. Oh god, naga, please don’t grow claws at this specific moment.

The naga hauls me up to the little shelf it lies upon and waits until I’ve steadied before it lets go. I cough awkwardly, dusting myself off. “Thanks,” I mutter, still feeling my heartbeat thunder through my temples.

The naga shrugs, beaming at me, and then seems to realize he’s got to respond to that more adequately. “You’re welcome. Sorry I grabbed you. I didn’t want you to fall.”

“’S fine.” We’re uncomfortably close. A curve of his tail is almost touching my foot. Most of the length of his snake half pulses steadily, evenly, at the same pace as his chest expanding, and I realize that’s the motion of his breathing. I didn’t know you could see snakes breathe. I start to think about how that works if he’s got human lungs and snake lungs at the same time, but stop, because I’m not a scientist and it’s too complicated for me. “We are almost there, right? To the thing?”

“Oh! Yes, we are,” the naga says, rubbing his knuckles together in anticipation, looking to the side where the path is (mercifully) now a little more level. “It’s right around the corner. Right up there.” He smiles at me again in that nervously friendly way and slithers on, his tail slowly uncoiling and following his torso. I wait until it’s all unraveled and ahead before following.

We’re in the mountain’s craggy pimple or something. This big-ass rock formation seems to have a level top, like a spikey plateau, which I’m thankful for, because I’m not in the mood to fall and get rescued by the naga again. I walk unsteadily through the earthen corridor, looking ahead to see the path takes a sharp right, and the tip of the naga’s tail disappears around the bend.

When I also round the bend I stop short. “Well, that is a tree,” I say dumbly, because there before us is indeed a tree. It must have been growing up on the edge of the wall above and somehow fallen, because it’s wedged sideways across the path like a piece of fence, right at chest level. It’s the shortest, fattest tree I’ve ever seen, and is perfectly wedged between these two walls, which are about ten feet apart. Its bark is thin and full of scratches.

The naga nods. “It is a tree,” he confirms sagely, patting it sadly with his hand. “And it won’t move.”

“What a bitch-ass tree,” I mutter.

The naga presses both hands to it and gives it a push. Absolutely nothing happens, and he sighs. “It’s so in the way.”

“Well, uh . . .” I trudge a little closer to see if there’s any way to get this thing out of here while also trying not to get much closer to the naga. This stone corridor’s narrow as fuck. I brace myself against it and also give it a shove. Not even a budge. “Well this is annoying. Has it moved at all? Like, when you were trying to move it before?”

The naga shrugs sadly. “Maybe a little, but it’s largely in the same place.”

“Okay, well . . . let’s try to push it together, I guess.”

I brace my shoulder against it, and the naga follows suit. I give a count of three and we both heave against it, straining, but nothing much happens. The naga’s tail keeps sliding backwards instead of gripping the ground and holding him steady like my feet do for me. Sucks to be half snake, huh.

I wonder if it’s too early to be like, _Well, sucks for you, I did all I can; see you, fucker._ I lean back and look under the blockage. I could probably fit under there if I squeezed like a motherfucker. “If I could just get to the other side, I could try pushing it there, but . . .”

I trail off as the naga glances at me, turns to the tree, and rears skyward, suddenly getting a whole lot taller than me. I shrink back against the wall, some wordless “Uuuh?” coming out my mouth as he puts his hands on the top of the trunk and vaults right over, disappearing over the side, his tail gliding after him. I hear the sound of his tail slapping against the ground as it lands on the other side, then the hiss of his voice. “Okay, er, now what should I do?”

I raise my hands up to my sides in exasperation, even if he can’t see them, addressing the sky above the tree. “Are you- wait, why the hell did you need me to come all the way over here and try to get this damn tree out when you can just go right over it?” I demand, pissed.

His voice is halting and small when it comes. “W-Well, sometimes I . . . need to get over here without any interference, and have trouble seeing, and I don’t want to fall and hurt myself when that happens . . .”

Yeah, this kid’s related to Ymir; I have no idea what the fuck either of them are ever talking about. “Fine, fine,” I grumble, “whatever, just . . . just give the thing a shove, yeah? We’ll see if it moves or not.”

I hear the quiet “mphf” of a voice straining and something hard (probably scales) scraping against the scratchy ground, and then he calls, “Nothing.”

“Well, shit.” I’m out of ideas. Would the naga get pissed if I just turned and left, saying that there’s nothing more I can do? Or does he expect me to stay here until we’ve figured it out? I’ve given up worrying about getting back to Reiner on time because it clearly isn’t happening. Fuck, I hope he doesn’t fire me. That’s the only thing getting me out of the house. Is it literally that hard to climb over this fucking thing? He did it in less than ten seconds! I’m going to kill Ymir. I’m going to kill this naga. They’d probably kill me first. _Fuck._

The naga’s head pops up over the log, making me jump again, god damn it. “Jean?” I see the name-butchering has not ceased.

“What?”

“What do we do now?”

“Let me think.” And what I’m thinking is that there’s no way this thing is budging left or right. It’s completely wedged. We need a crowbar, a horse, thirty adults, and divine intervention.

I cluck my tongue absentmindedly, drumming my fingers on the trunk. I hear the naga shifting on the other side of the tree and wonder just what is so goddamn important at the end of this path that he needs this done. It better be the fucking fountain of youth.

I look at the walls. Above the juncture of the rock walls and the top and bottom halves of the tree are skid marks that streak upward, seemingly formed when the damn thing fell. I crouch and circle my arms under the tree (try not to think about your hands being near the naga, Jean, right where you can’t see) and give it a heave directly upward. Okay, that’s a definite shift right there.

“Oop, there it is!” I announce. “All right, we’ve got to-“ Oh, fuck, what’s his name again? “Hey, uh, Marco, do you think you can squeeze under this thing? You’ve got to lift it vertically.” Because fuck if _I’m_ doing it.

His head pops up over the log again. “Wuh?”

“Vertically. Get under the tree on your back or something and push it up.” I gesture to the gap between the offending plant and the ground. “Push it up and then rotate it and you can get it right out of here. Problem solved.”

I jump ( _again,_ god damn it) as the naga hops back over to my side, his tail almost smacking me in the head. He leans down and gauges the gap, glancing at me periodically for approval, before slowly rotating onto his back and sliding under the tree, his back twisting, most of his tail staying right side up. How weird is that, being able to twist your spine around so much? Fucking unnatural.

He pokes his head out at me. “Push up?”

“Push up,” I repeat a little dryly, because god _damn_ his constant need for me to tell him what to do is getting real old real fast.

He takes a deep breath and, his back flush against the ground (I wonder if it hurts to have those weird-ass spines press against the ground), heaves upward. With a groan the tree skids upward an inch or two, scraping crumbles of rock and bark onto the ground, but it doesn’t go far up enough to be rotated. The naga’s arms relax again, the tree settles back into its former position, and he frowns. “I might need some help.”

It takes a while before I realize he’s talking to me. “Oh, uh-“ _Fuck!_ “I guess I’ll . . . let me just . . .”

He shuffles over toward one wall to give me room, gazing at me expectantly. God damn it. I wobble down to my knees, sighing. All kinds of nightmare scenarios flit through my head. The tree can fall on me. The naga can take advantage of the fact that I’m pinned and eat me. I may have to actually expend physical effort to help the naga. Those kinds of things.

The ground is really rough, and that’s never been more obvious as it is now, when I slowly and awkwardly get onto my side and then to my back. Holy shit is this tree short and fat, and the hard round curve of its trunk bows low to the ground, uncomfortably close to my face. I squirm and drag myself under it until it’s at chest level. I can barely move under here. I don’t look at the naga beside me because guess what, he’s probably staring at me, as usual.

“All right, count of three,” I mutter, putting my hands up above me on the trunk, making sure the naga does the same. “One, two . . . three.” Simultaneously we push, arms straining, shoulder blades being driven harshly into the hard ground. Pebbles and dust crumble off the black walls as the branches and roots of this stunted plant chafe upward. The naga’s half of the tree is rising a lot faster than mine is, which doesn’t do well for my ego.

With a heave and a huff the naga’s end of the tree scrapes free of its constraining position, and I yelp as the tree wobbles, now only being held up by our hands and not the walls. My arms shake from the strain. “’S free!” the naga crows delightedly, and his tail flexes as he hefts his end higher, tipping the other down toward me.

“A-a-a-a-ah, hello, stop doing that!” I yowl, my arms shaking badly because fuck, comparably, I’m a fifteen-year-old beanpole and I’m about to drop this thing on my face.

“Oh, whoops,” the naga says hastily, sitting up, somehow managing to shift the tree to his shoulders – the _entire_ thing. Without the constricting rock walls to hold the tree fast, he’s free to lift it . . . and lift it he does. Holy shit. I scramble away as he rises to what I guess is the equivalent of a standing position for him, an entire tree across his shoulders. It’s a short thing, but still. It’s like a fucking log.

The naga rotates his shoulders to a position the tree won’t get stuck in again and sets it down against the wall. He smiles down at me, eyes aglow, his hands doing that little excited-fist-shaking thing again. “Thank you!” he says happily.

I clear my throat and stand too, brushing the dirt off my clothes. I barely did anything. “Yeah,” I say shortly. “No problem.”

“I could never have done that myself!”

Somehow I doubt that, because he just fucking lifted the thing like it was nothing. “No prob.”

He puts his hands down. “I guess you want to go back now?”

“Yep,” I say in relief, glad this is over. Ymir owes me, in case I haven’t mentioned this. I let the smiling naga take the lead again, walking behind his winding tail, until we get to the edge of the rock shelf. “Aw, fuck,” I mutter; I didn’t have a ton of luck getting up this thing, and I’m probably going to have just as much trouble getting down. It looks like I’ll have to-

“Need help?” the naga suggests cautiously.

I groan, “Yes,” because I know I’m going to break my fucking neck otherwise. I grimace when the naga timidly offers his hand, like asking for another handshake, and wraps his tail around a rock in preparation.

I take his hand, ignoring my inward trepidation and revulsion at touching him yet again. Slowly, meticulously, he lowers me down, and once my feet touch (mostly) level grass I let go immediately. I wipe my hands on my pants yet again, pretending I’m just getting some dirt off, as the rest of the naga’s body slides and slithers down.

The walk back is quiet, mostly because I guess the naga has expended all topics of conversation and because I’m trying to concentrate on walking down this damn mountain without tripping and dying. Human bodies aren’t supposed to lean backwards so far, god damn it.

The cool shade afforded by the forest once we get back to it is a relief like nothing else. I didn’t anticipate how hot it would get with nothing between the sun and me. Climbing mountains is hard, kids. Don’t do it. Especially not with nagas, because it makes you feel simultaneously threatened and inadequate at the familiarity and ease with which they traverse the same slopes.

The naga stops suddenly in his tracks, and I almost trip right over him. He’s rigid, and I’m nervous. Why the hell did he stop?

He turns to me, mouth slightly agape, eyebrows raised, like he just thought of something. “Wait, you-“ He squints, looking me up and down, before perking up. “Wait here,” he says suddenly. “Five minutes, that’s all, and if I’m not back by then you can leave, but just give me five minutes, please?”

“What?” Oh my _god,_ more waiting? Christ! “Five minutes- five minutes for what?”

He raises his palms to me, gesturing for me to stay put. “Just five minutes, I promise! Please stay!” he calls before whirling and diving into the brush, disappearing with alarming quickness. I gape in his wake, arms spread in indignation. I see flashes of movement in the distance – hair, arm, glistening scaly back – until the naga completely disappears.

“What the fuck?” I ask the hissing leaves, the rustling wind. Neither answers me.

I take a step in the direction of home, but falter. There’s nothing less tempting than the naga coming back, seeing me gone, and going to _look_ for me. With claws. And fangs. Once again I’m letting myself get intimidated into following orders. Fucking freckled people. I hate freckled people.

I bet it’s not even going to be five minutes. More like another wasted fucking hour.

There’s nowhere to sit, so I awkwardly stand there, shifting my weight from one hip to the other, until I hear leaves rustling in a more deliberate fashion than just wind exactly three minutes later. I turn to see the naga winding back toward me, holding something tan and limp in his hands.

He holds it out when he gets close enough, and I stare at him like he’s fucking nuts. It’s a fucking rabbit. A _dead_ rabbit.

“Here,” the naga says gleefully, like this is the best gift he could give anyone.

“What.”

“Ymir always takes game back with her when she leaves, but you didn’t have time to hunt any. So I got one for you!” he explains eagerly. “She says the village you’re from does a lot of hunting. I didn’t want you to go back empty-handed.”

I stare, stunned, at the offered prize. The animal looks whole and clean, with no blood streaking its fur, and I wonder how he killed it. Probably snapped its neck or something, with his barbaric tree-lifting strength. And he _can_ go awfully fast . . .

“Wait, this is _mine?”_ I ask, just to confirm. Hey, don’t blame me; it’s not every day your village snake monster gives you dead animals.

“Mm-hm!” he hums, nodding eagerly, proffering it further. “You might have to stab it with something, to make it look like you killed it. It’s supposed to be yours.”

Haltingly I stretch out my hand and grip the rabbit’s loose fur, and the naga lets go. It’s a lot softer and more slippery than I thought it would be. It’s still warm. Its black eyes bulge dully in its skull. “Uh . . . thanks,” I say slowly. This is . . . weird. I hold in my hand a dead animal – a dead animal that was _hunted_ and slain for me to claim as my own. When I get back home it’s going to look . . . well, it’s going to look like I offed it myself. Me, Jean Kirschtein. I caught something. I acquired a source of food that doesn’t contain wheat.

“You’re welcome,” Marco chirps, starting to sidle away. “Can you . . . can you tell Ymir I said hello? If you see her?”

“Yah,” I grunt distractedly, still staring like a moron at this dead fucking rabbit in my hand. “Yeah, uh, I will.”

I have never done this before. I mean, everyone sees tons of dead animals in Trost. Walk by a tree in someone’s yard? It’s not uncommon to see a skinned deer hanging upside down to dry. People wear furs like they’re going out of fashion. The skins of our first kills are often nailed to our walls as decorations. Thomas’s is a badger. And mine will be . . . this. Dangling from my hands right now.

I blink, glancing up. “Hey, thanks, Marco-“

I cut myself off, frowning. He’s gone. I look around blankly, but I’m alone.

v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v

Walking back into Trost is surreal. I don’t make an effort to look like I knew exactly what I was getting into, because I sure didn’t. The rabbit’s slick fur has become sweaty in my clenched fist. I keep lifting it up to eye level, staring at it. It’s a _dead rabbit._ In my _hand. My_ hand.

I wander down the street like the undead, and I am not noticed at all, like usual. Carrying dead animals around is kind of normal around here. Still, it’s _me._ I am holding a dead rabbit. A rabbit that came from the woods. It’s got meat on it. It’s a _rabbit._

I made sure to give it a little nick on the neck, at least, so it looks like I did it instead of Marco.

Reiner’s not in the front when I approach the bakery, and Bertholdt is absent, but there’re a few customers waiting. I wince, realizing how obnoxiously long I’ve been gone. I hurry behind the counter and poke my head in, mumbling, “Uh, so, I can totally explain . . .”

Reiner’s sitting at a table inside, scoring a loaf with a knife. He looks up and sees me, and his brow creases. “Hey, man,” he greets. “Where’ve you been? You were gone for a while.”

I grit my teeth, hoping I seriously don’t get let go. Hey, Reiner, I got held up by the naga! Wow-whee! “Look, dude, I’m sorry, but a lot of stuff came up, and I had to do a favor for Ymir-“

But Reiner’s become distracted, staring at my prize. “Where’d you get that?” he asks, pointing his knife at the rabbit in my hands.

“Uh,” I say dumbly, my throat dry. “I, uh, I caught it. Killed it, I mean. I did. Yup.” Fucking amazing performance, Jean Kirschtein, Christ.

A big-ass grin splits Reiner’s face. “No way! Really?” He stands, crossing over to me. “You did?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Holy shit. That’s awesome, dude!” he whoops, thumping me hard on the shoulder in that overly affectionate way of his. “So that’s where you were? Why didn’t you tell me? I shouldn’t have worried!”

“Uh,” I squeak, but he just goes right on. “Look at you, coming up in the world. Do you know what to do with it? Or are you just going to give it to your parents? That’s what I did first time I caught something, and my mom turned it into dinner. Best meal I ever had!”

“I guess so. Wait, you’re not mad I was gone for so long . . . ?”

“Not when you do good with your time!” Reiner says jovially. “Why would I be mad? Great job, Kirschtein!”

He claps me on the shoulder one more time and steps around me to go back out to the counter, trumpeting some kind of greeting to the group outside. I stand there in stunned silence, blinking. Today’s . . . crazy.

Today’s pretty all right.

v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v

The rest of the day winds down in a bit of a haze, my mind made fuzzy by all the events that happened and the fact that Reiner keeps poking his head in and grinning and giving me thumbs up. Let’s have a rundown. I almost died, like, three times, I spent a good portion of the day running around with the naga, said naga gave me a gift that I’ve literally been yearning for for the longest time, and Reiner is acting like I just took down a bear for all his beaming. I’ve exercised today probably more than I ever have in my life. By the time the sun is halfway through setting, I feel physically and emotionally exhausted.

So turning around to see that Ymir once _again_ snuck into the bakery and is standing behind me isn’t very good for my heart.

I jolt, air hissing out of my throat. “God damn it,” I breathe. My heart pounds. “Stop fucking _doing_ that.”

“So how’d it go, John?” Ymir asks uncaringly, leaning sideways against a table, practically lying on it as if it’s hers. “You and my Marco got along fine?”

“Yeah, whatever, we got along fine,” I mutter. “Except for the fact that he dragged me all over the mountain for some pointless favor. Oh, and he got pissed at me again for something. I almost got eaten. _Again.”_

“Don’t be dramatic,” Ymir sighs. “Marco doesn’t have it in him to hurt anyone. He’s a big softie.”

A big softie who can toss a fucking tree, sure. I kind of want to ask about Niles and why he kept her all day, but I quickly decide that wow, I don’t care. “Why are you here? I don’t have to go there again, do I? It’s way too late for that!”

Ymir shakes her head. “I’m just checking up on ya. Making sure everything went smoothly.” Her eyes flit to the right and I know exactly what she’s looking at. For lack of anywhere else to put it, I stowed the rabbit in a very dead heap on a shelf that doesn’t hold anything. Ymir nods at it. “He do that?”

“Yes,” I admit.

She scoffs and rolls her eyes. “Of course he did. He showers me in the things. It’s unimaginably prosperous for wildlife up there. He’s pretty much the only predator.” She trails off and looks at me. “You’re not good enough to get anything, are you? You don’t know how.”

I squirm a little, agitated and put on the spot. “No,” I grumble. “I . . . don’t really know anything.” I add defensively, “But, I mean, I’m still young. I’ll learn.”

“I could take down a bull moose when I was thirteen,” she says dryly. “When are you going to learn, then?”

I stare at the floor and shrug. These are all the questions I dislike thinking about and think about way too often.

Ymir gets up from the table and puts her hands on her hips, looking purposeful. “Listen, Jimbles. Between Niles suddenly wanting to crawl up my ass and fixing Jaeger’s mistakes, I don’t have a lot of time on my hands anymore. That means, sometime in the future, I’m probably going to have to ask you to visit Marco again.”

Okay, look, the naga was a hell of a lot more pleasant than our disastrous first meeting, but I still want nothing to do with these people. That fact that Ymir expects me to just keep running off into the woods and exhaust myself dancing to a freckled tune annoys me to no end. I open my mouth to give a hell of a lot of protest before Ymir raises a hand and glares, cutting me off.

“Before you start pissing and moaning, I’ll make you a deal. I’ll teach you what you need to know.”

My objections die in my throat. Actually, all rational thought dies. “W-What?”

Ymir nods, looking grave, like she’s sacrificing something very dear (her free time, whoop-dee-doo). “I’ll teach you how to hunt if you continue to keep your mouth shut about my brother. Aaand do some small favors now and then. Tiny things. Sound fair, Jimbles?”

I gape at her, disbelieving, hoping beyond hope. “Uh, yes? Yes! Definitely!” I can’t believe my ears. Holy shit, this is so much better than awkwardly stalking and watching someone! Holy _shit!_ Ymir’s offering to teach me. Me, Jean Kirschtein. That dead rabbit is about to multiply from beyond the grave.

Ymir nods in satisfaction. “Now, listen, the only free time I’ve got is . . . well, one very specific day a week. Guess which one.”

This puts a bit of water on the fire of my victory, but doesn’t douse it. “The day you visit the naga.”

“Exactly, Jimbles. Every Wednesday, bright and early, I suppose you’ve got to come with me. See if you can get Wednesdays off work, all right?” She leans forward suddenly, dangerously. “That means you and Marco are suddenly going to be seeing a whole lot of each other. So if you’re still harboring some fucking ridiculous little superiority complex around him, or act in a manner around him that doesn’t rub me the right way, things are going to get real ugly real fuckin’ fast. Got that?”

I gulp, leaning back; now I remember exactly why I consider these freckled losers so nuts. I nod quickly.

Ymir leans back again. “Good. So we understand each other.”

“Yup.”

“So, we got a deal? You ready to finally become a productive member of society?”

She sticks her hand out, offering a handshake, and I almost burst out in irrational giggles, considering who else wanted a handshake from me today.

My hand meets hers. “Deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, call me a real estate agent because this chapter is nothing but location location location.
> 
> Marco has no manners. 
> 
> Why??? Does listening to Dark Horse??? Make me write this like a motherfucker???
> 
> Okay. So. Now, this has lately received an UNDUE amount of attention, thanks to the fact that there now exist _seven pieces of fanart_ for this fic. Since their conception, I've gotten 2,000 hits and 100 kudos. Holy crap! Thank you, everyone!
> 
> http://maggins.tumblr.com/post/81311440917  
> http://f-x-er.tumblr.com/post/81400338064/ouch-dichotomy-by-saphruikan-okay-i-think  
> http://msrenai21.tumblr.com/post/81629107910/i-never-knew-how-much-i-needed-naga-marco-until-i  
> http://f-x-er.tumblr.com/post/81829728620/quick-doodle-before-work-i-really-love-to-draw  
> http://maggins.tumblr.com/post/82109540256  
> http://jellyfishsempai.tumblr.com/post/82292601938/jumping-on-the-dichotomy-bandwagon-because-why-the
> 
> So I guess I've got to tell you I'm tracking the **fic: dichotomy** tag on Tumblr, because I'm pretty sure that's what you do when things are drawn for you? Which I still can't believe, by the way. The jeanmarco fandom is strong. Too strong. Scarily strong. God, I love it. I love you all!
> 
> Credit for the picture of the cliffy mountain goes to http://lhox.deviantart.com/.  
> Credit for the picture of a king cobra's back goes to some generic NatGeo documentary about king cobras.
> 
> Remember, kids, Maggins for president.


	6. Secure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FUCKBIRDS2K14
> 
>  **SECURE** | _adjective_ | not subject to threat

**Secure**

The rabbit’s skin goes on our wall, right next to Thomas’s badger. When I walked in with it, still in a daze from the day’s events and Ymir’s deal, my parents swarmed me with questions, demanding I sit and explain just where I’d gotten this creature from, because apparently it’s unbelievable that Jean Kirschtein can catch something for himself. Oh, who am I kidding? It _is_ unbelievable.

I’ve listened in on other expeditions enough to be able to give a half-bragging half-bullshit story about surprising the animal and jumping it that doesn’t sound like complete crap. My parents seem convinced, and that’s what counts, I guess. I specifically stress that I went into the woods alone, so no one suspects that I actually had a bit of help. A lot of help. Whatever.

When they finally let me go to bed after an amount of attention I’m entirely unused to, I flop onto my bed, arms spread over the sides, struggling to compute . . . well, everything.

The next day I go to Reiner’s as usual, walking in the street toward the front of the shop as though in a dream. I keep glancing shiftily at people, as if expecting them to see me and somehow know that something has shifted in the world of Jean Kirschtein, something has been monumentally changed. And this is entirely unrealistic, considering it’s only been a single day, but I can’t help greedily soaking up every glance my way and choosing to interpret them as just the warm-up before the imminent onslaught of praise and attention for my rising hunting skills.

Low humming meets my ears as I walk across the town square, and I start to hum along to one of the familiar hymn that I’ve been raised with. I glance to my right and see the church, run by Pastor Nick, from where the noise emanates. The structure is huge, white, and spiraling, easily the largest and best-kept building in all of Trost. Etched into the heavy oaken front doors is the side view of Maria, the goddess that protects Trost from freaks and foreigners. My family goes every Sunday to the mass held there. Pretty much the whole village goes at least once a week, if not every day.

The doors are closed for the current service, but if you go inside you see lots of old statues made of white and gray marble. One of them is of Maria, the protecting angel; the rest are the demons she’s protecting us from. Equa, the half-horse, the succubus who runs down unsuspecting commoners lost in the woods and rapes them. Aquila, the half-eagle, whose lust for power is only matched by her lust for blood. Altaica, the half-tigress, who simpers and sighs and slithers her way into the hearts of nonbelievers (or something). Naja, the worst of them all, the half-snake, who wishes to devour the world. These names are burned into our memories.

Of course, Naja is considered the very basest and wickedest demon, who struggles against Maria on a daily basis, their battles consuming and birthing the sun in a constant cycle, forming day and night.

It’s no wonder no one dares go up where Marco dwells. 

In the middle of the plaza is a raised dais with two huge, scarred wooden beams erected vertically a few feet away from each other, with a small hump of stained stone before them. Prisoners are tied up there for public humiliation or execution. Basically, if you wake up and find yourself up there, you are one hundred percent fucked.

When I’m within sight of the bakery I see Reiner’s there with Bertholdt, on opposite sides of the counter, and Reiner spots and greets me with a fervor that’s somehow both special and very normal for him. “Heeey, Jean!”

I know exactly why he’s behaving so jovial, and I can’t get displeased for the life of me. I let an unwilling smirk crawl across my face as I saunter up and around the counter, grunting, “’Sup, guys,” as casually as I can.

“Ruthless killer in the works over here,” Reiner chuckles aside to Bertholdt, throwing his arm out to grab my shoulder and jostle me playfully – or at least he tries to, because I shy and wriggle away. I don’t like being touched, like, ever. “Soon the woods will be run dry.”

“Ha ha,” I snort, going inside to set up my station. Reiner’s messy as hell, and it’s my unofficial job to clean up all his obnoxious shit. And holy shit, is it strange sometimes. Sweeping up stray flour is one thing, but why the fuck is a spare pair of underwear back here?

I step into the front, call Reiner’s name, and lob them in his face when he turns. “Quit getting laid where I work,” I yell, then go back inside to the sound of Bertholdt getting incredibly flustered.

“I was _not_ getting laid, as much as I’d like that to be true,” Reiner booms back, sounding like he’s struggling to contain laughter. Bertholdt being agitated makes him giddy for some reason. “You never know when you might need some extra clothes.”

“That’s fine, just stop leaving them on the cutting board!” I holler, picking up a broom to sweep up a pile of . . . _some_ questionable substance under a stool. It looks like crushed oatmeal, the kind the big asshole uses to make his Reiner Braun specials. Maybe I should set fire to the mound and save our darling customers.

“Guy catches a little bunny and thinks he runs this place,” I hear Reiner snort good-naturedly to Bertholdt. “Don’t get cocky, kid! I control how much money you get!”

“Like you would reduce my pay,” I drawl right back, feeling weirdly hyper myself. I mean, usually I just kind of wordlessly grunt when Reiner tries to mess with me. “You don’t have the guts.”

“He knows me too well,” Reiner keens. “My big heart betrays me once again.”

I roll my eyes, ready to let it drop there, but then after a pause he pops his head in and asks curiously, “So was that a one-time thing, or will there be a repeat?”

“What thing?" 

“The rabbit. You going to go out and catch yourself something else?”

“Oh, about that,” I say, remembering Ymir’s request (Ymir! Deal! Oh my god! Killing things!). “Um, from now on I can have Wednesdays off to, uh, do that stuff, right? The . . . _hunting_ stuff?” The hunting stuff. The hunting stuff. Who the fuck phrases it like that? Smooth, Kirschtein.

Reiner pulls the corners of his mouth down and shrugs. “Why the hell not?”

“Really?”

“Yeah! How else are you going to learn if I’m keeping you here every day?” He steps into the store proper, looking at me seriously. “Now, like, do you have a plan for this? Because, I mean, I can’t let you go running off into the woods again on your own. There’s all kinds of dangerous things out there. I could take you, if you want. I just, you know, I don’t feel comfortable letting you get out there on your own.”

Oh trust me, I’ve already met the most dangerous thing out there. I shook his hand. “Actually, uh, I’m not going alone.”

“Oh, never mind, that’s good! Who’re you going with? Thomas?”

I bunch up my lower lip, doing weird shit with my mouth, I don’t know. I feel like grinning and bragging and curling up in a ball. “Ymir,” I mutter.

“Who?”

“Ymir . . . whatever her last name is.”

“Wa- d- _Ymir?”_ Reiner repeats incredulously, gaping and blinking at me. “Freckles Ymir? Naga Ymir? Ymir with the crazy ponytail?”

“The one and only.”

“Are you serious? How the hell did you- Wednesdays! You’re going with her on her trips?” Reiner’s voice has gotten steadily more high-pitched and breathy in disbelief and pseudo-big brother pride. His little project of me has reached a breakthrough. Jean Kirschtein’s finally going out and doing shit for once! Close off the streets! Make an announcement!

When I nod he shifts his weight to one hip and gawps at me, trying not to smile. “Look at _you,”_ he squeals delightedly. “How the hell did you get that old grouch to let you come with? Do you realize how many people have asked to hunt with her? She’s never said yes to anyone.”

I shrug, resuming my cleaning; this shit’s not going to clear itself. “I don’t know. She just sprang it on me, I guess.”

“She _offered?”_ Reiner looks like his jaw’s going to unhinge itself; it’s gaping and working itself back and forth in utter disbelief and I’m violently reminded of another mouth that unhinges. “Holy shit. What’d you do, seduce her?”

I almost fall the fuck over. _“Fuck_ no,” I gasp, ignoring the muttered “Language!” from Reiner. “She is the _last_ person I’d want to seduce. Not that I couldn’t.”

Reiner rolls his eyes. “Sure you could, hotshot. Hey, be careful out there, okay? Don’t piss her off.”

“I already have,” I grumble under my breath as Reiner exits, probably to tell Bertholdt the exciting news that Jean isn’t quite the loser he was yesterday.

v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v

“Jean, get up.”

Groggy, tired, my body heavy, the first thing on my mind upon being roused is _fucking murder._ I groan angrily into my pillow, hissing wordlessly for him to leave.

“Jean, get _up,”_ Thomas repeats in exasperation from somewhere next to my bed, somewhere entirely too close. This is his room too, but _holy shit_ does he need to step the fuck out.

I raise my head blearily, squinting at the small window between our beds. The sun has barely even come up yet, and the sky is that fragile white-blue color of a newborn day. In other words, much too early for anyone named Jean Kirschtein to be expected to do anything more complex than snoring. I flop my face back under the covers. “Go th’fuck away.”

“Language.”

 _“Fffffffffuck_ you.”

“Jean, that woman Ymir’s pounding on our door and I’m a little scared. She’s yelling for you. Get up.”

My brain and body freeze for a second, utterly blank, before I lift my head and stare at the wall between my bed and Thomas’s. “What day is it?”

“. . . Wednesday.”

“Fuckin’ _shit,”_ I mutter, whipping the covers off my bed with new purpose. “Fuck fuck _fuck.”_ I tumble off my bed and scramble around for clothes, practically shoving Thomas out of the way.

“Language, Jean. What’s going on?”

“It’s frickin’ Wednesday,” I try not to yell, wrestling on a pair of pants and casting around for something warm. Damn, when Ymir said bright and early she meant it. I shake my head roughly, trying to wake myself up. “And I got up _late,_ of _course_ I did, somehow-“

Now I can hear the shaking of our front door as someone pounds on it from outside, and I yelp. How fucking long has that been happening? Ymir’s going to kill me.

“Are you going somewhere?”

“Yeah, uh,” I answer distractedly, trying to find my _fucking_ boots that always get _fucking_ lost because Thomas _fucking_ always puts them somewhere that’s _not_ where _I_ put them. “Where the eff are my boots? I’m, uh, going out. To hunt.” Also to see a naga, but, you know, we’ll omit that.

Thomas raises his obnoxiously blonde eyebrows. “You’re serious.”

“Hell yeah I’m serious,” I say, too giddy to be adequately snappy. “And Ymir’s taking me.”

Thomas’s eyes widen, and he spins to look dumbly out the bedroom doorway, as if to glean whether I’m lying or not from the wood that _really_ sounds like it’s going to break under Ymir’s fist. “No way.”

“Way,” I growl, finally locating my boots under my bed (who the fuck keeps their shoes under their bed?) and flopping down on my ass to wrestle them on. “Found a tutor.”

_“Ymir?”_

“What, are you deaf? Yes!” I say, bounding to my feet. Oh fuck, what the fuck do I bring? We didn’t talk about this. Am I expected to have my own weapons? All I’ve got is a dumb little dagger collecting dust on the top of my shelf (come to think of it, that would’ve been nice to bring when I had to go visit Marco last week, just to make myself feel a little less powerless). I hop onto my bed, the springs creaking, and feel around for it, trying not to cut myself on it like a fucking idiot when I find it. “She’s teaching me how to hunt and shit. Once a week. So tell Mom and Dad or something, ‘cause that’s where I’ll be.”

How long am I going to be gone? Will it rain? Do I need a coat? These are the things I should’ve fucking contemplated earlier, like maybe last night, or the _entire fucking week_ preceding today. Way to go, Kirschtein. I was so caught up in the fact that I’m going to be _doing_ shit that doesn’t involve sleeping or baking that I just kept daydreaming about the fact, not the details.

“Since when has this been happening? _How?”_ Thomas asks dumbly, slowly rotating to follow me as I rove around grabbing random things I might need.

“I don’t know,” I mutter distractedly, trying to find a belt that’ll carry this damn dagger. Most of them don’t fit me anymore. “Last week. She offered.”

 _“She_ offered?”

“Yup,” I say with a little more perkiness. Everyone seems to have a hard time with this fact. It feels fuckin’ _great._ That’s right, bitch, I didn’t have to grovel and beg to be around Ymir; she invited _me._

The door pounds even more insistently, and I groan under my breath, deciding to just carry the damn knife. I barrel past Thomas and toward the front door, my clothes and hair all in disarray from my haste. When I open it Ymir stands there, back straight as a pole, her arms crossed and chin jutting out. She’s got on a heavy coat (cool, so do I, though not as heavy), a pair of heavy boots (mine are not as heavy, but okay), and a heavy-looking belt lined with pouches and scabbards (damn it). Against her back rests a large bow, an intimidating, shiny curve of wood, as well as a quiver bristling with arrows strapped over her shoulder. She looks ready for some heavy shit.

 _“Took_ you long enough,” she drawls. She sizes me up, her eyes running from my head to my toes, looking unimpressed. “Got no gear?”

“Not really,” I admit glumly, shrugging a bit.

“Eh,” she grunts, lip curling. “We’ll work on it. Let’s roll, Jim.”

She spins on her heel, marching away with her characteristic arm-swinging and back swaying. I nearly trip out the door in my haste to follow her, turning around to shut my front door, and before I do I see Thomas standing there with Cane, staring with blank incredulousness. I flash him a smug grin before the door clicks shut.

I jog to catch up with her, my breath puffing a bit in the morning air. “Why so early?” I demand. “You usually wait until the afternoon.”

“No time like the present,” she drawls, her squinty eyes set ahead of her.

Even though it’s barely sunup, a considerable amount of people litter the streets, setting up shop and chatting idly to each other as they nurse tea and a few cups of coffee (like cocoa, coffee beans are a bit of a luxury). I can’t remember the last time I was willingly awake this early. I usually get up a few hours later than now and then head over to Reiner’s.

I wonder if anyone notices that Ymir and I are walking together (well, I’m kind of trying to keep up with her long-legged stride, but it’s pretty obvious we’re walking together. I think). I make an effort to lift my head, jut out my chin like she does, trying to look as badass as I feel. Oh _man,_ does Eren know about this? Oh my god. I hope we stop by Ymir’s house. Ymir doesn’t have a shop; the wooden porch of her house is enormous, so that serves as her workplace, and you just stroll right under the overhang of her roof to browse her work. Oh my god, I hope Eren is there. Oh my _god._

But we pass the road that leads to her house, so unfortunately that’s not happening, but it’s got to happen sometime. Who do I talk to? Thomas and Reiner, pretty much, I guess. I hope Reiner’s been blabbing all over town about my arrangement with Ymir. Godspeed, Reiner, you and your loud fucking mouth. 

“You look fucking stupid,” Ymir snaps suddenly, and I realize I’ve been strolling along placidly with this dumbass grin on my face. I scowl at her before straightening out my mouth, clearing my throat awkwardly. “That’s better.”

She’s making a beeline right for Reiner’s bakery, and I guess she must be picking up Marco’s gross-ass chocolate stuff. I wonder if that’s a naga thing, or if he just has terrible taste. The bakery’s not even open yet, so I’m not sure what the hell Ymir thinks she’s doing when she vaults right over the counter (literally how long would it have taken her to go around? Two seconds?) and ducks under it, frowning. She plucks something from the shelf under the countertop and spins it casually into the air, catching it and hopping back over the counter to me. Yup. Another bag of rolls.

“Reiner made those?” I ask blankly, staring at the dark pastry stains at the bottom of the bag. I frown, a little put out. Despite myself I was looking forward to more mindless compliments. 

“Well you sure didn’t,” she grunts disapprovingly. “He made them last night and left them out for me.”

“I didn’t know we were going this early! Usually you stop by at, like, noon.”

“I figured we needed a head start. You seem like you need a lot of work.”

I stew over this as we continue, simultaneously embittered because yes, I do need a lot of work, as well as heartened, because Ymir’s taking extra time to help me and she just said so herself. I keep an eye out for people I know and try to walk extra close to Ymir; it’s got to be obvious that we’re traipsing around together.  

Unfortunately, I pretty much see no one but boring adults as we near and then enter the woods. I glimpse Mr. Carolina leaning against a fence and chatting with a group of people, to whose house my mom drags me sometimes for boring dinners, as well as Mrs. Braus the butcher, who narrows her eyes at me again in suspicion. Christ, it was _one fucking sausage._ On a _dare._ Like _five years ago._

I don’t want to look too lame and desperate, posturing and posing and checking to see if anyone’s watching us, so I just focus on plunging into the woods like I know what the hell I’m doing.

It’s eerie, how quickly the atmosphere changes in the transition from light to dark, movement to stillness, yellow and brown to green. The town is knowledge and safety, predictability; it borders on boring, and filled with equals. I can name every feature of life in that goddamn town. But the woods are Ymir’s domain, Marco’s domain; everything is new, and I’ve got no idea what to expect in here. I feel like I’m trespassing. I feel like a child, and they’re the adults that tell me what to do now. 

I look at Ymir. It’s odd, walking beside her so brazenly after my disastrous first expedition into the forest after her. I’m not hiding, and I’m not alone; I’m actually _allowed_ and encouraged to be here for once.

“So how’s this going to work?” I ask Ymir as we wade through the bushes. “Like, tell me what’s going to go down. Target practice? Sparring? I’m all over that.” The thought of me picking up skills immediately and wowing Ymir with my natural prowess flits through my head.

Ymir throws her head back and laughs once, a harsh and brusque sound. “Hold your horses, Jimbles; we haven’t even gotten there yet.”

“I’m just planning ahead.”

“Sure. Plan this, then. We’ve got to establish a few ground rules before we begin this little arrangement, all right?” Ymir states seriously, turning to look at me as she trudges on.

“Sure.”

Ymir raises a finger. “Rule one: don’t be fucking rude.”

My eyes flutter skyward. “Next.”

“Rule two: don’t be _fucking_ rude.”

“Yeah, I got that the first time.”

_“Rude.”_

“All right, I’m sorry,” I grunt, raising my hands in defeat. “Next.”

“Three: you’ve got to face reality, Jimbles. You have to do _exactly_ what I tell you to, _when_ I tell you to,” she intones. “You follow my orders like I’m a fucking queen. No pissing and moaning, clear? No complaining or setting me off. I tell you to run, you ask how far, huh?”

“Sure, just- wait, are you actually going to make me run? What-“

“Four: now see if you can guess this one.” She glares at me challengingly. She’s still walking. What the hell. She’s not even looking at where she’s going. I almost want her to trip or slam into a tree or something.

I shrug. “Be nice to Marco?”

 _“Be_ nice to Marco. Excellent. Oh my god, what a great start. I can’t believe you remembered that it pays to not be a douchebag. You’re a star pupil already.”

I just “tsk,” and don’t dignify her with a response.

My stomach feels like it’s taken over my entire chest cavity, a yawning expanse of absolutely nothing, and I remember I haven’t eaten breakfast at all today. “Hey, got any food?” I ask.

Ymir flips open her satchel and withdraws an apple without a word, tossing it to me. I catch it grudgingly. “That’s it?”

“Want me to prepare a feast for you, Jimbles?”

I don’t really know what else to say to her for the rest of the walk (conversations with her always turn out exhausting), so I stay silent except for crunches of my apple. Over the smell of the fruit I can detect something else, something carried through the trees by a steady breeze. It smells like salt. Sometimes, when the wind is strong and blows from the east, the smell settles over Trost like a heavy blanket, bringing strange white wheeling birds that have ululating cries and hungry yellow eyes. No one knows where the hell it comes from. Pastor Nick says it’s a warning that our fields and forests will be burned and salted unless we repent for our sins, and the white birds are agents of the four demons. Well, someone better fucking repent before that happens.

The forest goes on repetitively and without variation, so I’m basically dependent upon Ymir for navigation. When we draw near to the clearing I toss the apple core somewhere in the bushes and wipe my hands on my trousers, still feeling pretty hungry.

I stroll right into the glade without hesitation, no looking around or anything, and wonder what this says about my mental state. It’s surprisingly sunny today, and warm; I think of discarding my coat, but I don’t really want to leave anything lying around. I don’t know, I feel weird doing so.

I look around at Ymir, expectant and just _brimming_ with potential skill and wonder, but she just stretches casually and flops down upon the tree trunk, looking obviously unconcerned with starting anything. I stand there awkwardly, fidgeting, waiting for her to say or do something. Nothing happens. It’s at this point I start feeling a bit of doubt. I mean, we’re _here._ Actually in the place where she’ll be teaching me shit. It feels a bit daunting. “So, uh, about the whole. _Training_ thing.”

“Would you relax? I just sat down,” she grumbles impatiently, stretching. She huffs out a satisfied breath, leaning back with her knees spread wide. “So,” she says, “what’re you interested in, exactly?”

“Archery,” I say instantly. She raises an eyebrow and I try to see this as a good thing.

“That’s going to take a lot of work. It takes years to really get everything down. You prepared to make that kind of investment of your time and energy?”

I nod immediately, eagerly. It’s not going to take Jean _Kirschtein_ years ( _but of course it will,_ my rational side whispers). “Of course. Obviously. Definitely.”

Ymir raises her hands. “Who am I to deny you, then?” she questions airily before turning to her satchel. She withdraws from it a roll of what looks like string and a long, white, irregularly-shaped object, which I recognize a second or two later from its porous base as a portion of a deer antler. She sets them down on the bark next to her and nods to them, leaning down and propping her chin up with one fist. “Go nuts.”

I stare blankly at her, then at the materials she just laid out. “What?”

“I’m assuming you went out with Shadis at one point, right?” She widens her eyes expectantly. “I’m sure you know how to make an arrowhead. Go wild. I’ll be waiting here.”

Oh shit. I hate shit like this, where you’re supposed to show how much you know before the actual good stuff starts. It just puts into perspective how much I _don’t_ know. Shadis took us kids out, like, four years ago. How am I supposed to remember all the details of what he drilled into us before dropping us? “Seriously? But you didn’t even give me anything to make arrowheads with!”

Ymir spreads her arms, straightening up; the white scars on her waist flex with the motion. “Of course not. I gave you something to cut one up with. You’ve got to find the shit yourself. Quick quiz: what material are you going to use?”

“Uh . . .” I say the first thing that pops into my head. “Rocks.”

“Too vague,” Ymir sighs. “Flint. Go get some. I recommend a stream or something.”

And this is how I find myself stomping into the woods, struggling to find a goddamn body of water. Thank god I remember what flint looks like. When I finally manage to locate a little brook (by fucking stepping in it) I hunch over and scoop up the biggest cache of smooth rocks I can find. I’m not looking forward to this at all. It’s just imminent humiliation. Ymir’s not going to go easy on me for forgetting shit. I can’t believe I thought I was going to pick this up like nothing. I’m supposed to be _cynical,_ what the _hell._

One shoe sopping wet, my hands coated in dirt, I squelch my way back into the clearing, where Ymir has shouldered off her heavy coat, exposing her bared midriff, and is knitting something baby blue in color but so misshapen I can’t tell for the life of me what the hell it is. I’m surprised to find her alone. As I dump the flint in a pile by the tree, I ask, “Don’t you call your brother or something?”

Ymir shakes her head, pursing her lips. “He’s probably still asleep. It’s chilly this morning, and he hates that.”

“Oh,” I mutter, sitting down next to her. “Hey, so, you know that big rock thing up the mountain a bit? That’s got a path going up to it?” When she nods I continue, “What the hell’s back there, anyway? He had me help him clear the path last week and it took _forever_.”

She gives me this look. “Why didn’t you ask him, if you wanted to know?”

“I was still edgy around him.”

To my relief she seems to find that answer satisfactory. “It’s where he basks. Marco can’t really generate much body heat himself, so he goes up where the sun hits him and takes a nap for an hour or so.” I try and wrap my head around that concept; living things are warm, and Marco isn’t? Does that make him not alive? “I’ll call him around noon, I guess. He should be awake by then, the lazy ass.” She raises an eyebrow at me. “Not anymore?”

“What?”

“Not edgy around him anymore?” she elaborates, and I shrug.

“I mean, I guess he’s not that scary,” I grumble, thinking of Naja the devouring god and scoffing at the comparison between groveling, submissive Marco and the huge white statue of a snake with soulless eyes in the chapel. “Even though I’m still pissed he chased me.”

“You’ll get over it,” Ymir drawls, then points and shrugs deliberately at the stones I dumped there. “Eeeh, debatable quality, but they’ll do. Get to work.” She resumes her knitting.

Oh Christ. This is the part I hate the most; knapping. Somehow I always manage to crush my knuckles under the mashing tool or slice my fingertips open on the sheer chips of flint. The ground beneath the tree is sandy, lacks grass, and is studded with rocks and bits of ancient bark. Well, _someone’s_ not going to have very clean knees by the end of the day. Ugh. I kneel awkwardly in the dirt beside the log, taking the piece of antler in one hand and a rock in my other hand. I get to work. Or, at least, I try to, but then Ymir speaks up. “Um, hello? Safety first?”

“What?” I ask for what feels like the thirtieth time today. 

She tugs a pair of goggles out of her bag and tosses them at me. I catch them and stare at them. They’re like the kind a blacksmith would use, the ones that make you look bug-eyed and stupid. “Don’t want that shit flying in your eyes. God damn,” Ymir mutters huffily.

“Where’d you get these?”

“Swiped ‘em. Get to work.”

Unsurprised, I fit the goggles on reluctantly, the straps squeezing the sides of my head uncomfortably, the lens turning my vision constrained and orange, and resume. I remember that you’ve got to hold it at a certain angle or something to split the flint right, but I can’t remember _what_ the angle looks like for the life of me. We were taught to just eyeball it and guess.

“Forty five,” Ymir interrupts again suddenly. I look up; she’s bent on her knitting, not focusing on me.

“What?”

“Forty five degrees,” she sighs. “Just a tip. That works best.”

This means absolutely nothing to me. “What the hell are you talking about?”

She puts down her string and sighs. “I forgot Trost is run by chuckleheads. It’s an angle, dipshit. Like this.” She holds up her needles at a certain angle. Oh, well that looks manageable. Since fucking when do numbers equal angles? Who comes up with this shit?

We resume our awkward silence, punctuated by my tentative taps of bone against stone and the knocking of her needles. I’m too much of a wimp to hit the flint hard, but I’m getting there. Slowly. I manage to knock the thing in half and get to work chipping slivers.

I glance up at the forest around us, at the clear sky, then at Ymir and to the white marks across her skin. The scars on her stomach look like they were painful. It’s kind of a relief, learning it was a bear and not the naga. It gives me less of a reason to be so painfully anxious.

“So,” I begin casually. “What’s . . . you know, what’s your deal?”

“My deal?”

“Yeah,” I continue. “The whole hiding-my-brother-in-the-woods thing. How long has this been going on?”

“Ever since we came to Trost,” Ymir mumbles distractedly, then squints. “Abouuut . . . seven years ago? Maybe eight. Somewhere in there.”

“You weren’t born here?”

She shakes her head. “Nope-ah,” she says, popping her lips on the _p._

“So where _were_ you born?” I ask, surprised. This explains why she’s so crazy and weird; she’s not even from Trost. I only know a few other people who weren’t born in Trost, and even fewer are generally considered socially acceptable to interact with (the others are either deadweights, crazy hobos, or both). One is Ymir, which I’ve just learned, and another is Bertholdt because he knows Reiner and is competent with a bow. We don’t much like mixing and mingling in Trost. “And why’s your brother a naga, anyway, and you’re not? How does that work? Did your mom or dad screw a snake or something?” 

She gives me a withering, vaguely threatening look, and I’m genuinely surprised she didn’t swing at me for that. “You’ve got a lot of questions for a bleeding guy.”

My thumb stings, and I look down to see a few beads of blood collecting on the pad of it. I grumble curses under my breath as I set everything down and suck on it, tasting dirt and salt and copper. I must’ve sliced the damn thing on the flint.

Ymir waves a hand dismissively. “You wouldn’t want to know anyway.”

I pop my thumb out of my mouth to say, “I kind of do.” When she looks at me skeptically I add, “I’m actually a little curious now. Honest. Spill.”

Ymir rolls her eyes silently, resuming her knitting. I wait for her to speak for a bit, but it seems she’s not going to. Only when I turn back to the flint does she start talking.

“We’re from this village by the coast. Somewhere blessedly far, far away from here. My father was a midwife and my mother was a scholar. It’s tinier than Trost, nestled right next to a scrubland. Much sunnier. _Much_ sunnier. You’d be a ghost compared to these people.”

I’m surprised she’s actually telling me this. I continue to listen in silence.

“Something you’ve got to understand is that Trost is . . . indescribably exclusive. My village . . . it was all about new things. Culture. Learning. Diversity. We ate it all up. We celebrated difference. We had festivals all the time, for every goddamn occasion. Birthdays, anniversaries, weddings, divorces, funerals- hell, maybe we just got bored sometimes and threw a big-ass party. It wasn’t all green and yellow like it is here, it was . . . colorful.

My very favorite job in the world was being a big sister. I _vividly_ remember being three years old and looking at this dumb fat bloodstained thing wrapped in a blanket and my dad saying, ‘Look, Ymir, it’s your little brother,’ and I fell in love instantly.”

This is the most I have ever heard her speak, and I say so. “So what?” she demands. “I’m a talkative person.” 

“This is pretty personal stuff. You don’t seem like the type to, like . . . pour your heart out. You know, allow people to know stuff about you.”

She grimaces. “I don’t like telling people a whole lot. I don’t like them knowing things about me. But if you’re going to be spending a lot of time around us, how’re you supposed to understand anything if you don’t know the backstory?”

“I just didn’t expect it, is all,” I say, shrugging, refusing to wince when she glares at me. Honesty is a good policy. “So, your brother was normal? Human? He got born?”

Ymir nods. “Normal as can be. Fat little legs and all. Used to tramp after me like a duckling all over the place, and I loved it. Everyone adored Marco. He just loved everything and everyone, the cynosure of everyone under fifteen. Every little boy and girl wanted him to be their little boyfriend. ‘Play with us, Marco,’” she imitates in a squeaky voice, obviously one intended for a child. “’No, play with _us.’_ Everyone knew him; everyone was charmed by him. _Everyone._ He was that kind of kid.

“So. I was ten, and he was seven. People started to disappear. They’d just vanish from their homes, from the street, from anywhere. No one knew who was doing it, what they wanted, what the hell was going on. That is, until people started reappearing as mutilated corpses haphazardly dumped on the side of the road. I was just ten, so they wouldn’t let me see, but I got a glimpse of one anyway. It was a woman. Her spine was growing another spine.”

Ymir sets her needles down and puts her wrists against her temples, splaying her fingers skyward. “Her ribs were coming out of her face, like this. Her jaw was split, like an insect’s, and her eyes were gone. Whoever was doing this, be it a singular person or a group, was doing some fucking twisted stuff to people. Trying to turn them into things, but none of it worked, and they just chucked the bodies wherever. We were all warned to stay indoors, lock up our houses, don’t go out alone, the works. It was a paranoia breeding ground. I’d never heard my village so _quiet._ It was beyond eerie.”

I feel a little nauseated, listening to this. I didn’t anticipate such heavy shit. This is the reason no one leaves Trost. The world’s full of some shitty things. It’s much better to just stay in Trost and never leave. It’s _safer._

“Then Marco went missing.”

I expect this part by now, but hearing the words still makes my skin crawl. My hands are on my lap, my thumb long since ceased in bleeding. The tight straps of my goggles are digging uncomfortably into my temples, so I tug them off for now. The air feels cold against my eyes.

“He just didn’t come home one night. I was a fucking mess. Screaming, crying, throwing things, demanding we go out and look for him and throwing even more of a fit when my parents refused. The whole village could hear me, day and night, wailing and screeching because I was so fucking _pissed_ and confused about what the hell was happening. ‘You’ve got to stay strong for us, Ymir,’ they used to say. ‘Well, fuck that,’ I remember thinking. I wanted Marco back. I didn’t want him to wind up carved up and growing body parts out of his fucking mouth in a ditch.

“I needed some air one night, god, what could it have been, two or three months after he went missing? So I snuck out the back door. It was a full moon, I remember. Real bright and easy to see. I was practically daring them to come and take me, whoever those sickos were, because then they’d bring me to Marco and I could be sure he was all right or not. I missed him abominably. I walked out the back door into Dad’s garden – Marco and I used to play in it _all_ the time; it was practically ours – so I walk out, staring up at the sky and the moon, trying not to bawl my dumb eyes out . . . and I trip right over him.”

Ymir has long since put down her needles, squinting off into the distance. “He was half frozen to death, just lying sprawled out in the dirt, and at first I thought a snake was trying to swallow him. But the moon was bright, and I could see it was part of his body now, somehow. That that’s what he was. I could see a trail of flat dirt behind him where he’d dragged himself home. I was too scared to see where the path was coming from; I just picked him up and hauled him inside.”

Her word choice stirs something in my brain, and I remember the weird sentence I’d recited to Marco to get him to stop attacking me. _I tripped over a snake in the garden._ Only someone Ymir told this story to could know the meaning behind that random phrase, and Ymir would only tell someone she trusts not to go blabbing. I feel kind of reassured.

“Huh,” I hum in a small voice. “What’d your parents do?”

Ymir snorts, turning suddenly derisive. “Well, my dad started screaming and my mom tried to kill him, and I wasn’t having any of _that."_ A pregnant pause. "So I packed my things, picked up Marco, and left. Didn’t look back." 

I raise my eyebrows, surprised. “Just like that?”

“Just like that. It was pretty fucking clear they didn’t want anything to do with him anymore. Didn’t think he was Marco anymore.” Her mouth twists menacingly at this, this grievance that’s nearly a decade old and still causes her to be visibly filled with venom. It’s startling to see such a change in her normal demeanor; this isn’t just getting bitchy and snarky over something, it’s genuine agitation. “And I was _not_ about that. I guess he’s a little _too_ different for my wonderfully diverse village, huh? I walked right out of there in the middle of the night with Marco in a torpor on my back and these psychopaths still running around abducting people left and right, and I didn’t look back once.”

She’s starting to pronounce things weirdly, drawing out different vowels and flicking over consonants in a way she doesn’t normally do. I get the gist of it, though. “So someone kidnapped him and . . . transformed him into a naga?” 

“Yes, indeed-y,” Ymir affirms, “though technically I guess he’s not even called a naga, since they’re not exactly a thing. I made up the word. I don’t know why Marco was the only one that lived through their fucked up experiments. Maybe he wasn’t. Maybe there are more. I don’t know how he got himself out of there, or if they let him go, or what. All I know is that he dragged himself through the dirt in the middle of the night until his hands bled and almost froze to death there . . . because he wanted to get back home.”

“What’d you do then?”

She shrugs. “Wandered. Tried to find a place to stay. Had to keep us hidden, ‘cause people would take on look at Marco and either scream or whip out a weapon. We were starving and half-dead by the time we hit Trost. I set Marco up here and carved out a living for myself on Trost’s streets. Which is a _lot_ more difficult than it should be, by the way. Trost is insanely xenophobic. It’s actually unnerving. I _still_ get death glares just because I’m a lot tanner than you snow people.”

I stare at the bark beneath my fingers, at a couple of ants darting their way in and out of its flaky, lichened ridges, and I feel kind of bad for Ymir. Even if she is a loud, dirty foreigner. “Wasn’t he, like, seven or something? Did he tell you who did it? What happened to him?”

Ymir looks at me suddenly, sharply. “You didn’t bring it up to him before, did you?”

“Uh . . . no,” I say slowly, startled by her sudden urgency. 

She relaxes. “Good. Whatever you do, just . . . do not bring it up. Don’t. I’ve asked him and it was a mistake.”

I screw up my face in confusion. “What did he say?”

Ymir gazes at me impassively. “He didn’t say anything. He had a panic attack so bad he couldn’t speak again for days. Just . . . do _not_ talk about it. He doesn’t really remember anything, and I don’t want him to. However they did it, it fucked him up in more ways than just the physical sense. Don’t make him remember.”

Well, good fucking thing I hadn’t let my curiosity overpower me last week, then. I like to ask whatever the hell’s on my mind, but I was deterred by Marco’s . . . uh, differences. I don’t really know what I’d do if Marco began freaking out. Wait, no, yes I do: _I_ would begin freaking out.

“So what was with that- that thing he did? When he first saw me?” I ask. “He looked pretty fucking demented. Like, his fucking mouth- Is that, like, his snake side coming out to say hello? Why the fuck was he so vicious?"

“Oh. That. The vicious thing . . . that wasn’t Marco,” Ymir says. “That wasn’t him controlling it. You know what? We honestly have no idea what the fuck that is. I never have, and it’s not exactly Marco doing it. I call it, I don’t know, the ‘berserk state’, and it’s happened ever since he got turned into a naga. It’s like . . . it’s not even him doing it. He gets all _demented_ sometimes whenever he gets too scared or angry, and blacks out, and attacks everything that moves. A random stranger popping up in his territory after almost a decade of seeing no one but me? More than enough to trigger the transformation.”

“Yeah, sure, but . . .” I gesture vaguely. “Snakes. Snakes are all evil and shit. He’s just, you know, being a snake.”

You know what kind of snake Marco is?” When I shake my head she continues, “He’s a king cobra. You can tell from the markings. They used to be everywhere where we lived. You know what we used to call king cobras back in my village?” I shake my head again. “Gentle giants. They didn’t do shit unless you attacked them first, and they took the first opportunity to run away. Big striped pansies. The only people who ever got bitten by them either accidentally scared them or . . . were stupid. So I can’t think of a reason for him being part of one making him violent.”

I still inwardly contest this, since everyone knows that snakes are pretty much the devil incarnate, and “gentle snake” is probably the dumbest mental image I’ve ever conjured, but I don’t argue with her. “Then what is it?”

She shrugs again. “Like I said, I’ve got no idea. Neither does Marco. He doesn’t know what he’s doing while he’s berserk and he doesn’t remember it afterward. We don’t even know what triggers it. Some things that stress him out do it, and other things don’t. It’s sporadic.”

“How’d you get him to stop chasing me?”

She leans over and jabs my shoulder with her fingers. “Ran up after him and got his attention. On his own it wears off after a while, but the second he sees me he snaps out of it every time. You’re lucky I felt bad for your sorry ass and saved you. Believe me, kid, you don't want to set off the berserk state. If I wasn't around . . .” She pauses, then adds, “Good thing he didn’t bite you, though.”

I stare at the sky with a _why me_ expression. I’m not even sure if I want to know. “Why.”

“Because he’s venomous,” Ymir says smugly, grinning at my obvious discomfort. “One bite, three minutes, and you’re a dead boy.”

“Thank you,” I say forcefully, nodding really deliberately at her. “Thank you _so_ much for this knowledge.”

“You’re so welcome, Jimbles,” Ymir snorts. “Now get back to work.” And thus ends our most in-depth talk yet.

I look down at the flint and antler that I’d completely forgotten about working with. I wrestle my goggles back on and get back to it, mulling over the long conversation we’d just shared. I guess I’m unsurprised that Ymir would share so much; she doesn’t seem the type to censor herself, even though she’s normally so strangely secretive.  I know a lot more about her and Marco than I had beforehand, that’s for sure. Apparently nagas aren’t even a _thing._ “So, uh, if there’s no such thing as a naga species, how’d you come up with the name ‘naga?’ Did you just make up a random word? Because the demon’s got the same name, more or less.”

“Your cult,” Ymir mutters, “has always derided snakes and the fictional demon you call Naja. What better name to call Marco than something you consider the devil itself? What else could possibly deter you idiots so much? When we came here and I saw that you have a snake demon called Naja, what else was I supposed to call him that would scare you shitless?”

“It’s not a _cult,”_ I say immediately. “It’s the church of Maria.”

She rolls her eyes. “Trost worships a woman on a wall. Great.”

I let it drop, feeling sour. What? Does she even _live_ in Trost? No wonder she still apparently gets death glares; you’re kind of considered nuts if you don’t attend the church.

In my agitation I’ve made quite a few arrowheads, I realize, piled up in a stack. They’re sloppy and aren’t centered, but for a couple of shitty arrowheads I made for the first time in a good amount of years they’re not bad. Thank god for my meticulous neatness. I actually feel pretty reassured. “How many do I have to make?” I wonder aloud.

Ymir leans over and squints. “Oh, damn, that looks like enough. We were talking for a while. Now, I’ll be merciful and understand that you’re probably an incompetent little shit, so you don’t remember how to put the actual things on the arrows." 

I squirm a little bit. “I don’t really remember that bit, nah.” My dad makes all his arrows, so when I used to steal his bow to practice I never thought I’d need to make the actual things.

“No shame in that. I’m surprised you even dress yourself in the morning without your daddy doing it for you. I’ll walk you through hafting.”

Her method of walking me through it is actually pretty patient. She explains what everything is and how to do it, teaching me how to specifically tie the arrowhead on and what holes to thread through and whatnot, giving me plenty of time to try for myself, and I try to have a little self-control in return and not complain about everything. It’s even more reassuring that she seems to be capable of being patient. Maybe I’m going to pick this up after all. This can’t be that bad. How else am I supposed to learn?

But then she leans over and brings forth her bow. That thing is fucking huge. “Got the arrows, got the bow,” Ymir says. “Now let’s see you shoot.”

All right. It’s time to not fuck up today. Let’s go, Jean motherfucking Kirschtein. Let’s rock this. I hope.

Ymir reaches into her bag again and withdraws a glove with only two fingers on it and a vambrace. “Righty or lefty?”

“Righty.”

“Oh, good, because I’ve only got shit for righties,” she says, tossing me the two pieces of equipment. “Put those on.”

I’m familiar with these, since you’re not supposed to shoot without them (I learned that lesson the hard way by slicing an entire layer of skin off my arm when I was twelve) (ow). I strap the vambrace to my left forearm, tightening it, before slipping on the glove. Hell yeah, I feel like a professional.

 _That_ feeling dies quickly when Ymir tosses her bow onto my lap. I scramble to catch it, shooting her a glare, before holding it deliberately in my hands. Its wood is smooth and cool under my fingers. This is some professional craftsmanship, I realize quickly. My dad’s bow is some cheap-ass shit compared to this. It’s symmetrical and glossy and kind of reminds me of the sheen of Marco’s scales.

Ymir must see my awed expression, because she smiles smugly. “I made this bow. Maybe I’ll teach you how, if you’re good enough. See that tree over there, the one that hangs right there?” She points it out to me. It’s a wide one, with a trunk that’s nearly flat. Ymir points at the ground about halfway between us and the tree, handing me an arrow. “Stand there. Try to nail it right in the middle.”

I chew my lip and trudge over there, the bow swinging slightly in my hands. I wish I don’t feel so goddamn awkward with it. Bows aren’t normally this frickin’ big, are they? It’s over half my height, and I am not a short guy. There’s no way they’re this big. Don’t they have cute little versions? For when you don’t want to deal with carting around the big-ass ones? Are those even real? Have they been invented? _I_ will invent them.

I chance a look over my shoulder at Ymir, who shrugs. “Don’t be aiming at me.”

“’M not,” I mumble, facing forward. “I just . . . don’t be surprised when I fuck up, all right? I don’t think I’m good at this. Yet.”

“That’s the point of showing me how you shoot, kid. Then I can pinpoint where you’re fucking up. Shoot.”

I swallow again, the corners of my mouth pulled back in this gross grimace, and nudge my feet into a position I think looks vaguely like the correct archer’s stance. I nock the arrow with clumsy fingers, setting it on the groove in the bow’s wood to keep it still, and raise the whole arrangement, drawing my arm back as far as I can. Holy _shit_ is this string hard to move, holy _shit._ It’s like trying to bend a piece of fucking metal. I can only manage to do it, like, five inches or something.

An absolutely _earsplitting_ whistle erupts behind me and I jump, squeaking. I whirl and glare at Ymir, who lowers her hand from her mouth and grins. She points a finger skyward and says smugly, “Noon.”

I don’t grace her with a reply and try to imitate what I was doing before her interruption. Now I feel like hurrying. It’s bad enough having Ymir as an audience, but I don’t want the naga to see me utterly fail to hit this tree too. Then Ymir will have someone to laugh about it _with._ Oh god.

I try not to think about what Ymir is thinking as I draw the string back as far as I can manage, which, again, isn’t very fucking far, and let the arrow loose. It wobbles through the air at an agonizingly slow pace before bouncing to the ground not even fifteen feet away, rolling to a rest half-hidden in the grass.

I can hear Ymir slowly clapping behind me. “Wow,” she intones.

“Whatever. I told you I wasn’t good,” I mutter, staring at the ground as I stomp back to the log and sit upon it heavily.

“That was . . . pretty terrible.”

“I _warned_ you,” I snap, arms crossed.

“No, but, I need to capture this moment in my mind forever. It needs to go down in my personal history as the absolute worst shot I’ve ever seen.”

“Shut up.”

“Like, I think I could pull off a better shot blindfolded. Marco could do it better with his feet and he doesn’t fucking _have_ feet.”

“Would you fucking cut it out?”

Ymir finally lets out a snide little snigger. “All right, all right; I’ll stop tormenting you. Let’s just go over what you did wrong.” She stands, motioning for me to do the same. “It’s going to take a looong while.”

I slowly rise to my feet, slow as molasses. My insides churn with embarrassment. I kind of want to just go home right now and lock myself in my room for the next six years and not speak to anyone.

Ymir turns to me and puts her hands on my shoulders, guiding me to where she wants me to stand. “First off. Stance. Give me your best archer’s stance.” I shuffle my feet apart a few inches and Ymir shakes her head. “Shoulder width, Jimbles, come _on._ There, good. Turn so you’re facing perpendicular to where you want the arrow to go. No. Ye- other way, no- yes, there we go. Head to the left. Chin up a little more. Down. God damn it I said _down._ Okay, roll your shoulders back . . . not that much back, you look like a penguin-“

She cuts herself off suddenly in the midst of me wondering what the fuck a penguin is, her jaw going slack, before waving and calling, “It’s okay, it’s all fine.” I turn my head and see Marco is hovering at the edge of the glade, his hands in nervous fists, his tail curled up tightly under his body, staring at us both with wide eyes. Clearly he has no idea why I’m here.

Ymir abandons me to saunter over to him, grinning – am I supposed to just keep standing here or what? – and he slithers forward to meet her. “Shit, Marco, you missed the funniest moment of your life. Jimbles here just shot the most pathetic attempt at archery I’ve ever seen.”

“Don’t fucking-“ I cut myself off, chewing my tongue to get myself to stop talking. Freckled brat. I’ll punch her, I swear to god. One person to bear witness to my suckiness is too much already; now she’s got someone to confer with. Fuck me with something sharp and painful.

“Oh,” Marco mumbles, glancing over at me with a little nervous confusion, and maybe some apology (yeah, bitch, you better apologize for her). He sidles closer to Ymir and murmurs something in her ear.

Ymir straightens up and says loudly, “Jimbles here is the most pathetic piece of trash I’ve ever encountered-“

“Thanks.” 

“-so I’m going to be teaching him some useful shit. Shooting things. Not being deadweight! Is that okay?” she adds a little more quietly.

The changes I noticed in her voice all day suddenly dominate her normal tones, and I realize what she’s been doing: lapsing back into an accent I’d never noticed before. It’s not as strong, but she has the same accent as Marco does. Her voice barely sounds like the one I recognize.

Marco glances uncertainly at me, then shrugs slowly. “I guess.” He smiles nervously at me, a gesture I don’t return.

Ymir throws her arm across his shoulders and tugs him after her, still speaking in that accent, and she actually speaks a little faster, like it’s more comfortable. “Good! Now you can watch Jimbles here be absolutely abysmal at everything he attempts! Oh joyous day!”

I can’t see myself but I’d like to think the cold of my gaze can freeze fire. She flashes me a cheeky smirk, releasing Marco and strolling over to the log, calling over her shoulder at me, “What do you think you’re doing? Archer stance, loser. Don’t slack off.” 

Reluctantly I resume the stance she wants and I really hope I don’t look like an idiot. I’m hyperaware of Marco approaching cautiously and hovering a few feet away from me. His tail’s doing that writhing thing at the end. We stare at each other, and I say, “What.”

It’s odd, now that I know more about Marco than I did before. Ymir is too brusque to adequately distrust, and her explanations for everything that’s happened have sounded rational enough to peel away my abject disgust until there’s nothing left but minor apprehension. Marco still looks weird as fuck, but I now know the stepping-stones around his fragile temper. As long as I watch my mouth, I really don’t have anything to be afraid of. And why should I? Look at this thing. He’s the most painfully awkward creature I’ve ever laid eyes on. Even more awkward than Bertholdt when Ymir jokingly hits on him. _That_ is funny.

He stares at the ground, then at me, then starts inching toward me.

Wait, is he.

He is.

He stops in front of me and offers his hand shyly. Rolling my eyes, I indulge him with another handshake. He perks up immediately when he sees I’m reciprocating without being told to. His hand really doesn’t feel like anything other than human.

“Um,” he says slowly after letting go, “wait, I thought your name was Jean.”

“It is,” I grumble. “Ymir’s just . . . being an . . . idiot.”

I momentarily wonder if this is the smartest thing to say, considering that’s his sister and he’s capable of going crazy when he’s stressed out, but he gets this mildly exasperated look, like he knows exactly what I’m talking about. It’s surprisingly mature and expressive for someone I considered so childishly foreign, and I snort. “Sorry,” he says. “If she was rude.”

I shrug. “She’s always rude." 

“Yeah,” he agrees solemnly, and god, it’s almost funny. “Did you, um.”

“Did I what?”

Marco’s hands curl in on themselves and hover in front of his chest in that nervous praying mantis pose. “The, um. The rabbit. You, um, took it with you, didn’t you?”

My immediate reaction of staring blankly at him must not be the one he wants, because he immediately sputters, “I mean, when you left I realized it was weird to just throw a dead animal at you, and I didn’t want to chase you down and explain because I am not supposed to go close to the village, and I was sure you would be unnerved by-“

“All right, dude, relax,” I mutter, raising a hand. “It’s all good. I took it. So, uh, thanks. By the way.”

 “Oh, good,” he sighs, relaxing. “Good. _That_ is good too,” he adds, grinning as Ymir saunters back over and hands him a pastry bag. He accepts it eagerly, waving bashfully at me before wandering away from us and tearing it open.

“Now, I know you’re not the brightest star in the sky,” Ymir sighs at me, “but where the _hell_ did that stance go.”

I mumble something and resume what I was doing. Ymir moves my shoulders and kicks my feet into position until she’s satisfied, then hands me her bow. “Draw.”

I do so, twisting my spine more than I feel I should to aim sideways and pulling the string back as much as I can. Ymir moves my elbow and hand around, correcting a lot more than is enough to preserve my pride, then tells me to stop slouching. I roll my shoulders back a bit, but I guess that doesn’t satisfy her because she scoffs and buries her fingers in my lower stomach; I yelp, my spine going ramrod straight, and she nods in satisfaction. “That’s better!”

I manage to hold my tongue, but give her the most viciously venomous glare humanly possible. She sneers at me, gesturing for me to draw.

I screw my face up in frustration, drawing the string back again and giving her a pointed look. Ymir returns it with incredulity. “That’s it? Christ, it’s not an infant, Jimbles, _pull it._ That’s it? Well, doctor Ymir has diagnosed your problem.” She squeezes my arm. “You’re fucking weak, dude. Nothing but fat and bone here, sir.”

I tug my arm out of her iron grip. “Well, then what do we do?”

“Well, _you_ are going to start rectifying this fundamental problem, and Marco and I are going to watch and laugh at you.”

“What the fuck is a rectifying?" 

“Never mind that. You need to start working out. Like, a lot.” Ymir curls her forearm skyward, fist clenched, flexing her biceps, and god damn is it intimidating. “You think I’m on the top of my game from slouching around? I warned you you’d have to work for this.”

I pull my lips back in agitation. “All right, whatever. So what do I do?”

“Well, first of all,” Ymir says, “you need to start exercising. And not just here, either, but on your own free time. I noticed you were pulling the string with your arm.”

“Thanks. Did you also notice I was lifting the bow with my arm, too? Standing with my feet? I think those are also important.”

She gives me a withering look. “That’s not what I meant, asshat. You’re supposed to pull it with your back. And since I am pretty sure that if I were to tear your shirt off right now I’d see ribs, that needs to be surely rectified. You’ve got to get as strong as me, Jimbles!”

“Right,” I say dryly, looking her up and down. “And how exactly am I going to know when that happens?”

“When you achieve lethal levels of attractiveness,” Ymir proclaims. “When you can draw that string back hard enough to break it; when you can, I don’t know, snap an animal’s neck or something, because apparently that’s an important quality in your godforsaken village. When you can lift something over, like, three hundred pounds.”

“You can’t lift three hundred pounds.”

Ymir starts nodding incredulously, putting her hands on her hips. “You want to go, bitch? Don’t test me.”

“Prove it.”

“Fine,” she simpers, then abruptly starts grinning, and I take a step back. She’s not planning something good. _“Wow,”_ she sighs loudly, her voice carrying. “If _only_ there was _something_ near _by_ that was _extremely heavy_ so I could _prove_ something to cute little _Jimbles_ over here.”

Marco, who has been munching methodically on his pastries, the lengths of his body draped all over the log in a sprawling shiny mass, suddenly drops the bag. “No.” 

Ymir whips around. “Marco! I didn’t see you there. Why don’t you come over here, little brother?” 

Marco looks terrified; loops of his tail slide off the log as he straightens up a bit. “No, Ymir _no,_ I hate it when you do this, please-“

Ymir begins to advance on him, swaying exaggeratedly with every step. “Oh, _Marcoooo-“_

“Don’t you dare!” he yells back at her, then yelps and bolts when she charges him, laughing maniacally. “Ymiiir, _stoooop!”_

I shake my head disapprovingly as they chase each other around much like they did the first time I saw them, Marco yelling fruitlessly at Ymir to stop (“You can’t even lift me anyway!”) and Ymir just straight-up ignoring him (“Marco! Don’t you love me? Come back!”) until Marco makes too sharp a turn and Ymir takes the opportunity to dive, wrapping her arms around a section of his tail. Marco groans in defeat and turns around and folds in on himself to try and shove her off his body, but she just abandons his snake part and wraps her arms around him instead.

He giggles – actually _giggles_ – and simply gives up and goes limp as Ymir throws him over her shoulder, stooping down to gather up one loop of his snake tail and lift it like a roll of rope. She bellows skyward in victory, then staggers, her arms occupied with lifting Marco and therefore unable to help her balance, and falls heavily on her ass, cackling.

“Told you!” Ymir yells at me from the ground as Marco slides off her and slinks away, muttering about how he feels manhandled. She clambers to her feet, dusting herself off.

“You didn’t even lift all of him.”

“Well. Of course I didn’t! No one can, dude, he weighs, like, I don’t even know how much. It ain’t humanly possible for anyone to do that.”

I stare at her dryly, and she shrugs. “All right, maybe I was exaggerating with the lifting thing. But you need to bulk up, Jimbles, you’re thin as a reed. Starting next week you begin the most intensive training regiment of your life. Better mentally prepare yourself.”

“Great,” I mutter, rolling my eyes skyward. “So what do I do to _day?”_

The answer to that question is more stance training. Ymir shows me the correct way to hold myself and forces me to do it over and over again until I’ve met her standards. Then she sends me off to make even _more_ goddamn arrowheads. We’re not even shooting them anymore, so I’m not sure what the point of it is, but Ymir gets what Ymir wants. And she keeps randomly making me stand up and do the stance again and correcting me. You’d think I would run out of ways to fuck it up, but you’d be very mistaken. My knees are never bent enough or they’re bent too much, my spine is never straight, my shoulders or feet never squared. Oh, and my wrists. Apparently I constantly twist my wrists too much when I draw back the damn string.

I stomp back to the log and throw myself down to the ground in frustration after a particularly error-filled session. Marco stares curiously at me and I glare back, daring him to say something, but he quickly looks away. Good. Staring is fucking rude.

Marco slips off into the woods somewhere a minute or two later, and I wonder if I scared him off, but I mostly welcome the lack of company. Now Ymir can finally fucking stop exclaiming over my mistakes to her one-man freckled audience. I’ve been in a constant flux of thinking this is amazing and thinking this is the worst decision I’ve ever made, and Ymir does not help one fucking bit.

After a while I see movement out of the corner of my eye and glance up to see Marco quietly emerge from the woods, returning, his hands clasped behind his back as he slinks his way through the grass toward us. Ymir is facing the other way, back at her knitting as I knap, and does not notice his return. Marco’s staring at her very carefully, maneuvering so that whatever his hands are doing behind his back is faced away from her.

I watch him quizzically as he withdraws from behind his back something shiny and sleek, and my face twists in confusion when I recognize it as an entire duck. Like, an actual duck, the kind from a pond, the ones that are brown with dark speckles. I wonder at first if it’s for me like the rabbit, but then I realize it’s alive, wriggling and jerking its neck to try and wrench free of Marco’s grasp. He’s got one hand around its back to hold its wings down and the other clamped down on its beak. I can barely hear little gurgles of protest and distress from the duck’s throat.

I’m wondering just why the hell Marco is holding a live duck – a live fucking duck – and looking like he’s trying to hide it. He slinks up behind Ymir, lips pressed together like he’s fighting back laughter, and slowly opens Ymir’s satchel and slips the duck inside, quickly releasing it and closing the bag before the animal can escape. He does all this with Ymir still oblivious of his presence and antics. The satchel twitches a bit as the duck tries to nose its way free, then goes still.

What the fuck.

Marco creeps backward, hands spread out as he tries not to make any noise, and he notices me watching him. He freezes, and we stare at each other blankly. He glances at Ymir’s back, then at me. Slowly, very slowly, he raises a finger to his lips, and I nod at an equally slow pace, confused but compliant.

Marco beams at me before getting up on the log next to Ymir, now alerting her to his presence. She flashes a rare, genuinely pleased grin and ruffles his hair fondly as he settles down, draping his tail over and under himself in shiny knots, like a built-in pillow and blanket. One thick section of it loops around Ymir’s waist and she doesn’t even bat an eyelid, just casually lifts and rests her elbows on it. Don’t snakes, like, wrap themselves around you and squeeze until you suffocate? How the fuck do you stand that?

They start talking. I can’t really hear what they’re saying because they’re murmuring in low tones, probably because of my presence. I guess we’re just going to . . . ignore the fact that Marco just placed a live bird among Ymir’s personal belongings. Okay. I hunker down and ignore them, ignore the incessant buzz of their voices. It’s kind of annoying. It’s not like I’m some big person to keep secrets from. I kind of want to know what the hell they talk about.

It doesn’t take long for them to get over _that._ It’s hard to decipher what exactly they’re saying when they’re both speaking so strongly in that accent. It’s rapid-fire, familiar, calm and casual. Ymir puts down her knitting to gesticulate; Marco props his head up in his hands and listens rapturously, a tiny smile on his lips. Ymir’s hands rest when she’s not gesturing on the portion of tail encircling her waist like it’s nothing special, like it’s her own lap. Sometimes she pats it, like you would if you were talking animatedly to your friend and you pat their knee for emphasis. Not that I would know. Even if I did have friends, I don’t like touching.

When the traders come two or three times a year they bring all kinds of foreign things, though they rarely even bring out most of their more domestic wares because they know Trost has no interest. For us they bring out the weapons, the furs, the precious metals made valuable only for their practical use and not for looking pretty. In the back of their tents they keep the wares no one in Trost will buy; the works of art: sculptures and maps, little trinkets made of crystal and amber and ash, colorful tapestries with fantastical, impossible landscapes.

I don’t blame us; none of these things have practical purpose, and it’s just not our thing. But I remember once being little and wandering under the thick flaps of one trader’s tent, probably running from whoever was it in a game of tag. The second I stood, the light so dim I might’ve been mistaken, I came face-to-face with a painting. The frame was made of hard, oiled oak with intricate vine patterns carved into it. It was taller than me. Its brushes of color weaved and stroked together to form a lake, but one unlike any lake I’d ever seen; its far beach was such a great distance away it couldn’t be seen on the horizon, and its waves lapped at white sand instead of soil and rock.

It was something that could only be born from someone with a bountiful imagination. It could never exist, not water of that scale, so I turned away, probably to resume my game of tag. That feeling of looking in on something so foreign it shouldn’t exist revisits me as I watch Ymir and Marco out of the corner of my eye, trying to convince myself I’m not the least bit curious. It’s such a domestic, regular scene – two people talking – that it gives me an even more surreal feeling. I, from Trost, light-haired and pale as snow, born from and raised among those who occupy and employ themselves with the harvesting of animals and little else, witness them, dark as polished oak in every respect, they who speak with thick tongues and large words that don’t mean anything to me. And one who’s not even human.

Ymir has her blunt way of speaking, simpering and harsh and unfiltered, and I wonder how much of that was always a part of her and how much of it might have been self-taught on the streets of a village that treats her dark freckles like leprosy. I mean, I always thought they were weird too; they make her stand out. I’ve never known her much. It never occurred to me that people might genuinely give her shit for it.

But Marco has never touched Trost, or anywhere for that matter. He’s the one you get a taste of real foreign vibe from. He stares a little too long, or holds himself a certain way, and it’s very easy to see how little he’s interacted with people. I’ve never thought about how many cues you can pick up from body language, but now that I’m staring – rather pointedly, too, whoops – at someone who’s more than a little bit off, it makes me think.

Ymir is talking. “. . . turns to me, this bitch turns to me and sticks her beaky nose up and says, ‘Ymir, I don’t like your attitude,’ and at this point I’m honestly about to cave her fucking face in, you know, but I refrain because I’m a patient saint, and I just go, ‘Ma’am, you’ve been stepping on my goddamn heel for the past three blocks; maybe if you stopped trying to crawl up my asshole there would be less of a problem.’”

“She could have been in a hurry,” Marco murmurs, but Ymir scoffs and shakes her head.

“And that’s what you said _last_ time. All she’s doing is going to the pub to smoke and drink; she can step the fuck off for that. Did I mention Niles sent for me again? I did, didn’t I? Well, I weaseled the fuck out of there right quick. Kept me for three goddamn hours, laying out his dumb _deal_ and bringing in these other grunts to _endorse._ Look, pasty, if I don’t want to join the fucking military police, I’m not going to join. ‘No’ doesn’t mean ‘convince me.’”

“Niles asked you to join the military police?” I interrupt, because this tidbit is too interesting to ignore. The military police is Niles’s personal guard, plus the general peacekeeper of Trost. You can’t join of your own suggestion; you have to be invited, and only people of note get invited. It’s the highest honor we bestow. They’re the aforementioned optimal lifestyle I always think about. Members of the military police get anything they want, and all they do is answer to Niles and walk around making sure no one gets any dirt on their fancy cloaks with the sigil of a unicorn on the back. I could care less about venturing outside of Trost once I get in there; I’m really lazy, but at least I’m honest about it. That anyone gets asked is kind of a big deal.

Ymir levels me with a stony stare. “Yes,” she says, “about fifty _fucking_ times. Bitch can’t take no for an answer.”

“You don’t _want_ to be in the military police?” I make a confused face. “Why?”

“Why would I want to?” she demands.

“Well, for one, you’d be set for life." 

“I’m doing just fine on my own. I am not a peacekeeper. Other people are not my responsibility.”

This is pretty fucking rich, considering the inhuman little brother wrapped around her right now, but I don’t comment on that. “You wouldn’t have to, like, even run a business anymore. You pretty much get anything for free. Reiner gives handouts to the police. I heard they only pay one penny for ten pounds of leather.”

Ymir scoffs. “I enjoy occupying myself. I’m not turned on by the thought of _uselessly_ dragging my feet around with a bunch of coddled idiots with more weapons than they know what to do with." 

Ymir has, like, sixteen knives strapped to her in all kinds of places. Nice. “You wouldn’t have to work with _Eren_ anymore,” I say, wrinkling my nose distastefully.

“Apart from making initial mistakes,” Ymir says, “there’s nothing wrong with Eren.”

She notices the look on my face and raises an eyebrow. “He’s intense, and he’s not particularly good at what he does, but he doesn’t let that stop him. Lately he’s been improving a lot because he practices, like, constantly. Soon I can let him run the place and come visit you more again,” she adds aside to Marco, petting his hair back in a motherly fashion; Marco’s mouth falls open in glee at this, and he thumps his head against her stomach as he hugs her middle. Ymir snorts softly before continuing, “He’s not afraid to ask for help, either. That’s refreshing in Trost.”

Wow, okay, I do not like this. I didn’t ask for hearing good shit about Eren. “Yeah, well. He’s a hotheaded _brat._ Come on, there’s got to be something. Isn’t he annoying?”

She shrugs. “Not really.”

I frown. “He doesn’t, like, nag you or anything? Be generally annoying?”

“His passion is a little off-putting,” Ymir says, “but he’s a nice kid, I guess. Very respectful. He’s asked for pointers about various things from me, and he’s always polite, unlike some horses we know. He’s very diligent.”

I stew, feeling weirdly shut down and oddly jealous. So apparently Eren has been asking Ymir stuff? Yeah, well, I’m _still_ better than him at Ymir-socializing. I mean, I know her big secret. I’m in the _woods_ with her and her naga _brother_ , for Christ’s sake. The only way to one-up _that_ is to date the woman.

There are some sacrifices you just don’t make.

“Why are you so fixated on Eren Jaeger?” Ymir wonders aloud.

“I’m not. I just know him, that’s all.”

“Yeah, well, he barely mentions you.”

That’s news to me. I always had the impression Eren finds me as infuriating as I find him. I scrunch my eyebrows together. “And what does he say?”

She shrugs. “He just mentions you in passing. That you work with Reiner. That you used to hang out.”

Yeah, and he conveniently left out the part that he’s an enormous asshole to me. He may have everyone else fooled, but not me.

“Do you have any more food?” I wonder aloud, feeling the urge to sink my teeth into something.

Ymir sets down her knitting, lips pulled back in exasperation at my greediness, as Marco slowly unravels the tail from her, perking up, eyes wide and glancing back and forth from her to me with subdued excitement. I feel like I should be understanding something, until I notice Ymir’s going for her satchel. _Oh._

Ymir starts to drawl something but I don’t even hear or remember, because the second she drags her satchel over and opens it the duck, now suddenly active, bursts forth, its taut wings flapping frantically and neck sticking stiffly out, quacking harshly. The shriek Ymir lets out is the loudest, shrillest noise I’ve ever heard, and her bag goes flying toward the grass as she falls backward off the log in shock, her legs sticking in the air, and the duck makes its low escape into the brush.

Marco and I are both bent over laughing, he out of predictability for his prank and me out of genuine shock, because holy _fuck_ was her violent reaction funny. Ymir scrambles to her feet, hair a mess and teeth bared. “Marco you _PIECE of SHIT!”_ she roars, launching herself at him. “I FUCKING _HATE BIRDS!”_

“Oh my fucking god,” I choke out, my stomach aching, as Marco tries and fails to scramble away when he’s still laughing so hard he can’t breathe, and he raises his arms weakly to fend his sister off as she slams into him. They go down in a tangle, Ymir immediately trapping Marco in a headlock, and he just goes limp into a giggling mess like before as she bats him around roughly.

I try to regain control of myself as the two idiots wrestle, Marco being much more passive than Ymir is, but the expression Ymir made when the thing burst out, oh _god._ I can’t stop erupting into giggles.

Ymir yells in frustration and I look over again. Marco has apparently tired of Ymir’s roughhousing and curled a single loop of that thick tail around her stomach, pinning her arms to her sides, so she lies there on her side effectively helpless. She kicks her feet. “Marco, let me go! I’m not done _killing_ you yet!”

Marco’s long enough that he can crawl away from Ymir and lean his human torso casually back against the log, resting his elbows on its surface. “That’s what you get for trying to pick me up.”

“You don’t have a _picking-up phobia!_ If that thing shit all over my stuff I’ll kill you!”

“Do you have a bird phobia?” I ask Ymir incredulously. “You’re scared of birds?" 

She freezes, looking livid, then groans, plunking her forehead down on her brother’s scales. “Look what you made me say,” she whines at Marco, then flops her head back and narrows her eyes at me upside down. _“Tell no one.”_

“Won’t say a word,” I say in a strangled voice, thinking of all the amazing ways this can be exploited. Marco chuckles again as Ymir starts rolling around aggressively, trying to get free, and I catch his eye. We’re both grinning like idiots at each other, and he tilts his head at me, studying me, his gaze turning curious, and it occurs to me that maybe he just did that, all of that, for my benefit. I turn my head to watch Ymir’s struggle instead.

Ymir goes limp again, facedown and groaning. “If you let me go I’ll love you forever.”

“You already love me forever,” Marco says, but unravels himself from her anyway, relaxing enough for her to wiggle free. She scrambles to her feet immediately, charging over to him and snapping him up in another headlock. She gives him the most aggressive noogie I have ever witnessed in my life; he winces, half hugging her and laughing, but she’s laughing by now too. I’m not sure if Ymir knows how to be anything but aggressively affectionate.

I still have this half-smirk on my face and Ymir notices. She narrows her eyes at me before I can fully master a stoic expression. “Gimme the stance, Jimbles,” she says shortly, reaching up to fix her hair. 

The minor good mood I developed dissipated (and I still want to eat something), I heave myself to my feet reluctantly, scowling. Marco looks suddenly very put out. So he _had_ done all that for me. To . . .  cheer me up. I’m not sure whether to be amused or weirded out or . . . what. Appreciative, I guess.

It _was_ pretty funny.

I trudge over to where Ymir gestures and she tosses her bow to me. “Do it up.” I do it up as well as I can, not even bothering to hope anymore that it’s correct or not, because guess what, it probably isn’t.

As Ymir stops in front of me to inspect, Marco bounds into my field of vision behind her. He squints at me, his snake body weaving as he leans back and forth to peer around Ymir, and then he starts silently mouthing something at me, over and over. Ymir’s too distracted by the precarious placement of my knees to notice me staring blankly back at him, narrowing my eyes, my lips mutely forming a, _"W_ _hat?"_

Marco raises his right hand and points at his wrist with his left. _“Wrist,”_ he mouths again, and when it occurs to me what he’s trying to convey I glance at my own. They’re twisted too much again. I correct them right before Ymir straightens up, looking pensively at my whole body, and Marco and I wait with bated breath for the verdict.

“Well! That’s progress,” Ymir huffs. “Got it right for once.”

“Uh huh,” I agree dumbly as Marco beams at me, giving me two thumbs up. I do that half-smile thing where you bunch your mouth up toward your nose in thanks, and my lips actually quirk to the side a little. That was, uh, nice of him. Surprisingly nice.

Ymir gives me a companionable whack on the shoulder, which is less companionable and more oh-my-god-I’m-going-to-fall-over. “Celebration. Lunchtime!”

Now she’s speaking my language.

v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v 

Lunch is more fruit. More goddamn fruit.

Apples, to be exact, because they’re the only things around still ripe this late in the year. And there are a lot. They’re the good kind, too, the really shiny ones that crunch loudly when you bite and aren’t too sweet (I hate sweet shit, ugh). When I ask Ymir where she got them all she replies she stole them from the big tree in Bertholdt’s yard. Figures.

We’re clustered on the log again, which I now recognize is the general place of convening in these goddamn woods or something. It must get boring, just hanging around this log all day every Wednesday doing nothing but talking to each other, but Ymir and Marco don’t seem to have any trouble. Good on them, I guess.

Ymir and I are sitting on the log munching pensively, and she still has her knitting; Marco has draped himself between us, yawning quite hugely, the thick spools of his shiny dark body wound up in neat bundles that he nestles his human half within. He takes up a hell of a lot of space. We’ve been eating for a while, mostly because apples don’t do much for you in the hunger department and we just keep burning right through them. Ymir holds up an apple, eyebrows raised inquisitively, but Marco shakes his head.

“Is chocolate all you eat?” I wonder aloud. Marco looks over in surprise.

“Um. I eat animals and other things,” he answers in confusion. “It’s not physically possible to live on only _chocolate._ It would be nice, though,” he adds quietly.

“It would be nice if I could live on compliments and death glares,” Ymir puts in dryly, “but that ain’t happening.”

Marco flops over so his head’s on her shoulder, gazing up at her fondly. “I would give you compliments all day and make you fat.”

“Aren’t you devious. And sweet,” Ymir sighs, trapping Marco with an arm around his neck, planting a really loud kiss on his cheek. In true little brother fashion Marco wrinkles his nose and makes disgusted noises, but he’s smiling all the same. He detaches himself from her with some difficulty, making motions like he’s going to wipe his cheek but never quite getting there.

That’s about six hundred percent more affection than I expect from Ymir. “You guys are gross.”

“What, you jealous? You want a smooch too? Marco, give him a smooch.”

“No,” Marco and I say at the same time. Keep that mouth exactly fifty feet away from my face at all times.

“Killjoys,” Ymir mutters, stretching. “Sorry I’m being boring today, Marco. That loser over there needs more help than I anticipated.”

“You’re not boring, Ymir!” Marco denies immediately. “You are never boring. Don’t say that. I don’t like it.”

“As you wish, my irascible young friend.”

“How’s your sweater coming along?”

Ymir proudly holds up the sky blue thing she’s been knitting all this time. “What do you think?”

“It’s starting to look like a sweater!”

“That thing is a _sweater?”_ I ask incredulously. It looks like a bedraggled heap of frizzy blue yarn with no discernable shape or function. “Since when? Where the fuck are the sleeves?”

“It’s coming along,” Ymir sniffs, waving her hand at me. “It takes a while.”

Marco inches closer to me, looking gleeful. “Ymir is in love with Christa Lenz.”

 _“_ Wha- _Marco!”_

“Christa?” I repeat, startled. The only Christa Lenz I know is a small, petite girl a couple of years older than me. I haven’t spoken to her much, but I hear she has a reputation for being universally kind. I think she’s Trost’s record-keeper, an odd job around here because reading isn’t high on anyone’s priority list. “Seriously?”

“Marco, you’re not supposed to tell people!” Ymir is howling, and I try to visualize her waking hand-in-hand with dainty angelic Christa, but cannot.

Marco doesn’t look apologetic in the least. “Jean won’t tell anyone. Will you, Jean?”

“I haven’t made my move yet and if you spoil it for me I’ll rip your dick off,” Ymir mutters viciously, glowering.

“Ymir is knitting _that_ for her,” Marco says aside to me. “Ymir says blue brings out Christa’s eyes.”

“Well, it does!”

Dear god, Ymir is actually _blushing._ Her freckles disappear as her cheeks slowly turn red, and my mouth hangs open in glee. I never imagined someone like Ymir being in love with anyone. Oh my god, am I going to exploit this. I turn to Marco. “Does Christa like her back?”

“I don’t know!” Marco replies enthusiastically. “But I can’t imagine why she wouldn’t.”

 _Your sister is kind of a douchebag, that’s why._ “I wonder how long this has been going on.”

“Marco, stop encouraging him,” Ymir sighs, obviously trying to play it cool when she’s still blushing like mad.

“Ymir _always_ talks about Christa. I can’t remember when she started because it was such a very long time ago. But she mentions Christa every day.”

“Damn, she’s got it bad.”

Marco’s face falls into confusion for a second. “Wait, what is it? What has she got?”

“Oh, uh . . . a crush, I guess.” Big dumb and scaly takes everything literally.

“Oh. Yes! She does! A few weeks back she was telling me that Christa has a perfect laugh and blush and Ymir really likes seeing her get all worked up because she looks like a puffed-up puppy who’s trying to be bigger-“

“Kitten, I said _kitten_ -“ 

“Yes, a puffed-up kitten, who’s trying to be bigger to be threatening, and it doesn’t work because she’s so small, I guess,” Marco finishes finally. Damn, does this kid rant. His voice is full of enthusiasm, and it feels both forced and not forced at the same time. I don’t think he knows how to address me. It seems with Ymir he can speak as naturally and calmly as he wants, but with me he suffuses speech with so much cheerfulness it sounds weird.

“Why do you take such delight in divulging all my secrets, Marco?” Ymir groans.

“It’s making you blush!”

Ymir turns away from us in a huff, back hunched forlornly. “Like I said, I haven’t made my move yet, but I will. If you breathe a word to anyone-“

“My genitals will be forcibly removed, yes, I get it,” I sigh. I feel like a treasure chest full of Ymir’s secrets.

Ymir puffs her bottom lip out, and we watch her relax as the discomfort drains out of her. She sighs wistfully, “Christa _does_ have a perfect laugh and a perfect blush.”

“I’ve never met her.”

“A _lot_ of people haven’t,” Ymir snaps, “because Trost is an _idiot town_ where _no one reads.”_

“No one reads in Trost?” Marco repeats quietly, perplexed. “Why doesn’t anyone read in Trost? Do they not know how? You should teach them, Ymir.”

“Because they’re all _fucking stupid.”_

“Oh, would you _stop,”_ I complain at the same time Marco goes, “But Jean’s from Trost and he doesn’t seem stupid to me. Do you know how to read, Jean?”

“Yeah.” I pause. “Mostly. But I’m not _stupid,_ for Christ’s sake. I’ve just got better things to do.”

Ymir snorts. “Yeah, okay,” she drawls skeptically. “Like what?”

“Work,” I say defensively.

“You only work, like five hours a day or something. You barely get paid. You are a charity case, not an apprentice, you idiot.”

“Ymir, I don’t like it when you get agitated. Stop,” Marco says, poking her in the ribs. “Also you’re being unkind to Jean. Stop that too. I like Jean.”

“You don’t know anything _about_ Jean.”

“Yes I do! He makes good food and has pretty hair that I really want to touch but I’m not going to because that would be rude and I should ask first.” Marco glances at me. “Can I touch your hair?”

“Wh- _no!”_ I whine immediately, grabbing my head as if to stop it from escaping and placing itself in Marco’s hands. Marco looks put out, which is miles better than how he would look if he went and touched my hair without my permission, which is really fucking dead. I spend a lot of time on this do.

“It’s not polite to touch other people you don’t really know, Marco,” Ymir sighs patiently.

“That’s why I asked, but,” he adds, turning to me and grinning, “sorry.”

I can’t get over the weirdness of his eyes. The round iris is a pale cross between brown and gold and entirely too large, encompassing almost the entirety of the visible part of his eyeball, and there are no whites at all, just dark splotchy sclera.

He reminds me of a dog that’s just met a new person. Sure, it’s going to bark and be wary for a bit, but the second it’s over that it just wants to flop all over you. I already have one slut to deal with back home, thanks. I can’t believe I was ever scared of this loser. I shrug at him.

Ymir chucks an apple core at my head, which I dodge by mere inches with an indignant yelp. “Stance.”

I loll my head back and groan loudly in exasperation, stretching my legs out in preparation to reluctantly rise. “Oh my god, this is so fucking repetitive. How many times to I have to do this?”

“Remember, Jimbles. _Lethal levels_ of _attractiveness."_

“You make no fucking sense. What the fuck does that even mean?”

She flexes, smirking, her biceps bulging in a most obnoxious fashion. “People dig muscles, and as of now, you have none. Practicing even just drawing back the string makes you better and stronger at it.”

“People,” I mutter, “or just Christa?”

Ymir’s smirks. “Christa finds muscles _very_ attractive, thank you.”

“Hopefully,” Marco pipes up.

“Hopef- shut the fuck up, Marco,” Ymir snaps. “Don’t ruin my dream.”

I slide off the log to my feet, groaning. “What if I get really buff and Christa suddenly wants to be all over me?”

“I will _literally_ kill you. Catch, fucker.” She tosses her bow and I manage to catch it without flailing this time. My right shoulder is aching by now, the kind of soreness and tightness that constantly makes you want to roll your spine backwards. I do the stance, and Ymir meanders over to check on me, and I should be watching her . . . but my eyes wander to Marco, who’s staring at me with intense focus. Apparently finding me acceptable he smiles brightly at me, seemingly genuinely happy that I am no longer fucking this up.

“Isn’t Reiner kind of crushing on Christa?” I wonder aloud.

“He’d better fucking not be,” Ymir growls, kicking my toes to see if I wince. I don’t, to my credit.

“Well, you said Christa digs muscles, so-“

“Who’s Reiner?” Marco interjects curiously, his head tilted quizzically.

I’m about to answer something along the lines of, “My boss,” or, “The guy who literally fed you for years,” but Ymir speaks before I have a chance to open my mouth and leads this in a whole new direction. “A killer.”

My mind kind of wipes out at that as she plows on. “This big brute in Trost whose specialty is beating things to death. He could snap your spine in half. I’ve seen him do it to some things.”

Whoa, where the fuck did this come from? I gape at her in confusion, because the fact that Reiner is capable of butchering animals isn’t exactly the first quality you’d describe about him to someone who has never met him. Hell, I would’ve started with his over-the-top boisterousness, or his charity, or his thing for Bertholdt that neither of them are initiating anytime soon because they’re both fucking losers, not with the words “killer” and “big brute.” I feel a rush of defensiveness for my hospitable boss. “Hey, what the hell, Ymir, he’s more than ju-“

She whips around to glare at me, and I shrink back at the warning in her eyes. I risk a glance at Marco, thinking this must be some kind of a joke, but he looks like a cross between weary and cowed, a frown on his face and his obnoxiously weird eyes faintly mournful, and I decide maybe now is not the best time to question what the fuck she thinks she’s saying. 

“Shut up and go work some more on something useful,” she snaps, and I flash her this irritated, bewildered look before slinking back to the log, setting down her bow on the wood near Marco; whatever, he can look after it, it’s his sister’s bow. I can’t believe she’d just say that shit about Reiner. She _knows_ the guy; I’ve seen them interact. I thought they were friendly.

“Reiner’s nice,” I growl at Marco, not about to let Reiner get dissed like that. I owe a lot to him; it’s not easy to put up with me. “Like, really a nice guy.”

Ymir has taken up her knitting again, impassively staring at her lap, looking like she’s done nothing wrong. I meant that comment in passing, you know, like a for-your-information thing, but Marco apparently takes that as a cue to talk to me more because he glances at Ymir uncertainly, then sidles closer to me. Not even two feet away from me, but I’m surprised at how used to it I’m getting. “But that’s not what Ymir said,” he hums, low enough that she can’t hear.

“Yeah, well,” I grumble just as quietly, “I don’t know what her problem is, but Reiner, like, barely even hunts all that much. He’s a baker, for crying out loud. So, like . . . don’t go thinking he’s a bad guy or anything.”

“I won’t,” Marco says slowly. He picks at the bark beneath his hands, looking contemplative. “Is he a . . . nice person?”

“Super nice.”

“Is he the only one?”

I tilt my head. “The only what?”

“Nice person,” he mumbles. “Anyone. Are there more nice ones? Because Ymir-“ He pauses to glance over at her again. “-doesn’t really tell me anything about people from your village except things like . . . that. And I, well, I didn’t think that could be right at all, because I don’t think people are like that. Not the majority of them, anyway. From what I remember. I won’t say that to her directly.” He looks at me with subdued eagerness. “What are people like?”

I open my mouth, then close it, uncertain of what to say. “Uh . . .” I begin eloquently, my eyes dancing over his face, his dark freckles all over his nose and cheeks, his large bright eyes. If you look close, like _really_ close, you can see dark patterns marbling his honeyed irises, like lichen on stone. “Well, people are . . . people.”

“People?”

“I mean,” I continue, because that was a shitty ass description, “well, there are good people and bad people, but mostly good people, I guess. Everyone sort of acts decently toward each other, at least. Like, Reiner for example, he’s a very good guy. Real nice to everyone.”

Marco nods along with my words, entranced. “Isn’t he the one who bakes with you?”

I nod and take up the flint, because the last mood I’m in is the one where I listen to Ymir tell me to make myself useful. I wrestle on goggles and start chipping again. “He baked them today, I think,” Marco goes on, “because they weren’t that good. Can you make them again?”

“Yeah, I was going to,” I say, “I just didn’t have time. Christ, you’re demanding.” I scratch my hairline for a second, then go back to working.

“So what are you?" 

I glance up at him, confused. “What am I? What, demanding?”

He shakes his head. “No, I mean, a good person or a bad person. Which one are you?”

I open my mouth to go on about how I’m the most self-assured fucker alive, but I close my mouth again. This is the weirdest question I’ve ever been asked. Can I just neglect to answer this? “Well . . . it’s not, like . . . black and white like that, dude. It’s a mix. It’s not either-or.”

“I think you’re nice,” Marco says casually, “even though you look really angry all the time. Or at least very grim. Or smug. You don’t attack me or anything.”

“Well, it would be a dumb fucking move. You could probably fuck me up,” I point out. “You’re a hell of a lot bigger than me. Plus, you know, the whole . . .” I gesture vaguely at his elongated, obviously very muscular body. “Thing.”

He tilts his head. “Thing? Oh! Me!” He shakes his head vigorously, his eyes widening in earnestness, his words clumsily tripping and tumbling out of his mouth. “I know I look weird but I’m not dangerous. I’m not. I don’t eat people or attack them. I don’t even go near the village; I stay up here and mind my own business. I’m not a monster. I’m normal, I just have a weird body.”

It sounds rehearsed, sounds desperate and memorized and fake. He’s leaning forward over the log toward me, his back hunched, eyes wide to drink in my reaction.

“You sound like you practiced that,” I say eventually.

“I did,” he replies, like it’s obvious.

A catbird caws somewhere behind me. A squirrel jumps from tiny branch to tiny branch, its gray tail spinning as it leaps. “Well,” I say eventually. “You’re really fucking awkward, that’s for sure.”

His brow furrows. “Is that good or bad?”

“As long as you’re not eating me, that’s good.”

He wrinkles his nose. “I don’t eat people.” I wonder if I imagined the long, thin, split tongue I’d witnessed when Marco went berserk on me. From what I can witness from his speech, his tongue looks pale and fat and completely normal to me.

I’m staring at his mouth. It _is_ a weird mouth. Really dark lips. Lots of freckles. Aesthetically, they are exceedingly foreign; usually lips are pink or pale, you know? I wonder if you peel back his lips you’ll find dark gums, too. I think dogs have dark gums. Where the hell are his fangs? His canines don’t look any more pronounced than a normal person’s. The whole berserk incident was so fleeting and frantic, it leaves me feeling I imagined half the stuff.

I internally shrug and resume knapping, a little more careful now that I’m aware I’m being intently watched because looking good censors no audience, though I note with pride that these last few arrowheads look damn fine. _Damn_ fine. I’m doing good for the first day. I’ll be an expert in no time.

I’m faintly aware I should be paying attention to something, that there’s something vaguely wrong with this immediate scenario, but I just write it off as being in the woods learning how to hunt and being not two feet away from the _fucking_ naga. Marco reaches over and picks up – wow, excuse you – one of the arrowheads from the pile, turning it over and over in his hands curiously. I want to find his presence annoying, but it’s just so goddamn _alien_ that it can’t be anything but . . . mildly interesting. Or at least numbing. Whatever. I’m tolerating his presence, is what I’m trying to say.

Marco taps the point of the arrowhead with his fingertip curiously, frowning. Holy shit, he has a lot of freckles. There are a lot on the bridge of his nose, as well as his cheeks, like a band between his eyes and mouth. I can spot a few littering his forehead and the hollows of his eye sockets. Some of them are really round and pronounced, drops of ink, and others are faded and blotchy, like miniature spills of tea on his skin. There’s one _just_ to the right of the tip of his nose, and the fact that it’s not in the center bothers me.

Remember that feeling that something’s wrong? I realize now what it is as I knock a particularly messy sliver of flint apart; tiny shards go flinging everywhere like sparks from an ember, bouncing off my goggles to leave no harm; Marco, who is literally _right there_ with no goggles to speak of, can’t even blink in time as one of those chips sail right into his eye-

And pings off, like it would off glass. Marco doesn’t even react, tilting his head at me in curiosity as I stare at him in horror. He just got a rock to the _eyeball_ and it bounced off. “Uh,” I say dumbly. “Sorry.”

“For what?”

“The- I just nailed you right in the eye. With a rock. A sharp rock.”

“Oh,” he says dumbly. Then he perks up. “Oh! Did you? I didn’t feel it.”

“What." 

Marco reaches up and, with a completely straight face, taps his fingertip against his _eyeball_ like you would a windowpane. He doesn’t even blink. “I didn’t feel it.”

“How did you _not_ feel that?”

He frowns in confusion, then his face goes slack in comprehension. “Oh, your eyes are soft. Eye caps. Hard eyes,” he says, pointing at his eyes again. “It’s a thing on them. Like a shield. So I didn’t feel anything.”

“That’s fucking creepy,” I say bluntly. I wonder if that’s why he never blinks; nothing gets in his eyes, so he has no reason to blink and clean them.

“Well, they’re soft underneath,” he sniffs. I kind of want to poke one. Do they feel like glass? Are they wet? This is weird.

Two of those strange white wheeling birds circle glide slowly overhead, lazily keening that odd cry. Marco glances up at them unconcerned (I look up with more concern, since they’re harbingers of our doom or something), then does a double take. “It’s so late! Ymir!”

I glance up as Marco scrambles down the log toward his sister, his tail lashing from side to side to propel him, and I wonder what he means; it’s not _super_ late, but it’s a little darker than it was before. It’s only midafternoon.

Ymir rolls up her knitting and stows it away in her bag, smirking. “That time already?”

“What time? Time to go?” I ask. Wow, that was frickin’ short. We barely did anything. She didn’t even hunt anything. How does she always come back with so much game? I still haven’t forgiven her for that badmouthing incident, by the way. Not even close.

“Nope. Time for the _contest,”_ she declares, grinning wickedly and standing. She picks up her bow from where I’d placed it against the log, thumbing the string.

“What contest?” Do I have to participate? Oh god, I hope it doesn’t involve strength. Imagine scrawny me going up against ripped Ymir and her just-as-ripped brother who is also half snake. Not happening.

Marco rises to a height a little below Ymir’s, grinning like she is. “No cheating.”

“I won’t,” Ymir drawls, rolling her eyes skyward. “That was _one_ time.”

“Four. Four times." 

“I lost count; was it? Anyway. Jimbles, be our scorekeeper. You’re an unbiased party.”

“Scorekeeper for what?” I repeat, getting real done with their inability to explain anything. I am a _really fucking biased_ party right now. Marco could spin in circles and punch me in the face and I’d still declare him winner over Ymir.

“How do you think I bring home so much game every week?” she demands. “I don’t do it myself, certainly.”

“I help,” Marco pipes up informatively.

“He helps,” Ymir confirms. “We see who can get the most quality game by the time I have to leave and whoever does wins.”

“I usually win,” Marco says smugly.

Ymir turns to him. “Oh, fuck you, you live here. So, normal end time?”

“Normal end time.”

“Point or count system?" 

“Mm . . . point. Deer should be out by now.”

“Excellent. Top or bottom side?”

“Branches.”

“Blood count?” 

“Hm. I want to impress Jean. Bloodless? Or are you in a hurry?”

“Not particularly, so yeah, bloodless. Fuck, that gives you an advantage.” 

“Yup!”

“But hey, that means you can’t use venom! Half points or point sum reduction for a penalty?”

“Half points, I think. So you have a chance of winning.”

“Hey, fuck you.”

“Can someone speak in a fucking decipherable language?” I wonder aloud.

Ymir turns to me. “Forgot you were here.” Wow, thanks. “Your job is easy. Just sit tight on this log and look handsome – which I know is a _task_ for you, but bear with me – and keep count of what we bring back. Make sure no one cheats.”

“Especially Ymir,” Marco murmurs in a tone of voice that makes me think he was speaking entirely to himself; Ymir whacks him in the shoulder.

“Knock it off. Jimbles, knap while we’re off. Or nap. Or do a pushup or something, since you need those so badly.”

“Thanks.”

“My point is to make yourself useful. Now give us a countdown! Marco, I call north!”

“Okay, if I get east! The lake is east.”

“Wait- shit, I actually said east. I call east.” At these words Marco promptly spins and bolts, writhing and loping on his hands; I freeze and stare at how quick he is, how weird the motion is. His spine arches and flattens with every rapid stride into the trees, his long tail flattening and oscillating in thick slippery waves. He disappears quickly into the trees; Ymir chases him, yelling fruitlessly, “He- I call east! Get back here! I called it!”

I hunch there at the log awkwardly, listening to their yelling and crashing move further and further away. Eventually I stand and sit down on the tree proper so my back can have a rest from bending forward so much. Like hell I’m knapping more; I made, like, three hundred thousand million of the damn arrowheads and my poor fingers deserve a rest. The thumb I sliced earlier feels tight and fragile; I keep flexing it like I’m waiting for it to split open again.

I hope they don’t take too long, but it’s also good to get some alone time to digest. I can’t decide if I learned a lot today or learned nothing. I thought I’d be making more progress to this. Well, I’ve got the stance down, thanks to Ymir making me do it fifty fucking times. That, and Marco.

Still not sure about how I feel around him. The fact that he’s so flipping pathetic- it feels kind of cheap. Like, are kelpies actually just cuddly water horses, then, instead of drowning demons? Are dragons just baby lizards? Merpeople are happy fish guys who just want hugs? Because this fierce naga creature is actually pretty . . . chill. He’s not even dangerous in a loony or antisocial way, least of all in a traditionally dangerous one. It’s genuinely laughable that everyone back home is terrified of _this guy._ I suppose it’s stupid to still be edgy. Impossibly, I’m really not anymore.

They _are_ foreigners, however, and that part isn’t going to be forgotten. That should be enough to watch my step around them. With Ymir’s grabby pettiness and general pickiness and the “berserk state,” I feel like I’m stepping in a room littered with snares.

This log doesn’t exactly have a backrest, and my poor achy old man back is starting to protest in earnest. A glance to the side tells me there are still a few branches attached to this dead tree, rising at heavy angles into the sky. I heave myself to my feet with a grunt and trudge down the tree until I find a suitable branch. I sit down and lean my back against it, folding my arms over my stomach and kicking my feet up onto the trunk, crossing my ankles. Much more comfortable. I could fall asleep like this.

I don’t know how much time has passed before I start hearing noticeably unnatural noises approaching, and I loll my head to the side lazily to see. Ymir comes trotting out of the woods, her hair a bit of a mess, a dead, hard, tan mass between her hands. I think it’s a tortoise; how she managed to kill a tortoise without breaking the skin is beyond me. She lays it out on the trunk right above the tangled base of the tree, wiping her hands on her shirt, then glances over at me. “Comfortable?" 

“Pretty comfortable, yeah,” I sigh, staring at her, daring her to tell me to be productive when she’s playing a goddamn game. But she just shrugs and jogs away. Good. I deserve a break.

The second time she comes back she interrupts my intense staring contest with the dead eyes of the tortoise. Ymir sets down two squirrels, their legs splayed, their tiny pink tongues jutting out of their mouths, beside the tortoise, stretching and sighing. She looks searchingly at me. “Marco come back yet?”

I shrug and shake my head. She grimaces. “He’s either slacking, or he’s hoarding. I can _not_ lose.”

“I hope you flippin’ do,” I mutter under my breath as she leaves again. Maybe I should tell Reiner she badmouthed him. Or something. He’d probably just not care, the big obnoxious lug. But the venom in her voice . . . and the look Marco had, like this was nothing new. I mean, it’s her business, but I can’t deny it sits me the wrong way. If Marco doesn’t even have a concept that someone like Reiner Braun could be a good person . . .

Marco is much more silent than Ymir is; I only notice him when he moves into my field of vision, and his sudden proximity makes me jump. I suppose it makes sense, when he doesn’t have legs to step with, that he is so eerily quiet. In his hands, clasped between each of his fingers, is a considerably more impressive array of dispatched fauna: four squirrels, two ducks, and a limp, shiny fish about the length of my hand. Holy shit, how did he get a fish? Did he swim for that? How did he survive? No wonder he took longer. He sets them down right at my crossed feet, staring at me as I stare at him. Is it even possible to catch that many things in such a short amount of time? With your bare hands? No fucking way. The woods are _not_ that populated – they can’t be. How do you catch a squirrel with your bare hands? Those things move fucking fast.

“Did Ymir cheat?” he wonders aloud.

I shrug. “I don’t know the rules.”

“They can’t have blood on them,” he says, looking over at Ymir’s comparatively sad cache. “Bloodless. Otherwise you only get half the points.”

“Points?”

Marco nods, pointing down at the things he’s caught. “Squirrels are five,” he explains, “ducks are three, and fish are eight. Raccoons are ten, porcupines and skunks and turtles are fifteen, opossums are one, and deer are twenty. I didn’t see any deer, though. I hope Ymir hasn’t. Has she?” He glances down toward the roots again, then nods in satisfaction. “Good. I hope she doesn’t try to cheat. Even if she does she’s going to lose.”

“Damn ruthless,” I mutter, imagining far too easily Marco wrestling and killing an entire deer. Marco looks at me inquisitively and I shake my head. “What was that other bullshit you two spouted? The other rules?” I hope Ymir breaks a rule. I want to knock her down a peg.

“Oh, um,” Marco hums. “We have a lot of different versions of this same game. Sometimes we go by how many we each catch, and sometimes by _what_ we catch, and then we have points for different things. We put our catches on different ends of this tree so we know for sure who caught what because Ymir would always steal part of mine and call it hers. Bloodless means we can’t break the skin, and I like doing that because Ymir is very sloppy and I’m good at breaking necks.”

“What an admirable quality.” I’m not sure if Marco picked up on my sarcasm because he looks pleased. “So what happens if you break a rule?”

“Sometimes you get the animal’s points taken away,” Marco goes on, “so if you got blood on a duck, you lose three points. Today we agreed you can get points, but only half. That’s how Ymir usually cheats. She says she got bitten and it’s actually _her_ blood. That’s never true.”

“Got it,” I say, making a mental note to go check on those three corpses to see if they’re clean.

Marco turns and wanders away, without a goodbye or anything, and I don’t really care. From behind I get a view of his dark spine swaying and rolling side to side as he oscillates back to the woods, like he’s slowly moving his hips, if he even has hips. Weird. 

I peer down at his catches. The fish’s scales are shiny, even shinier than Marco’s. I’ve never seen a real fish before, just pictures. No one goes near the water for fear of kelpies and merpeople waiting to drag you under. I wonder what they taste like.

Seeing the two ducks Marco caught just remind me of Ymir’s freak-out earlier. I start giggling like a moron for a minute or two. Maybe I should order some wicker figures of all kinds of birds and request Ymir makes them.

Eventually I convince myself to get up and check the three animals Ymir has laid out; unfortunately they are clean, but the afternoon is young. Marco’s fish is starting to give off a really bad smell; is it normal for fish to give off enough of this smell?

I sit there for a while, staring at the way to strangely salty wind tousles the boughs of the maples at the edge of the clearing. Maples are the best to climb, you know. Really clean bark with no bugs or anything. Lots of easy branches. Not so easy to draw. I’ve fallen out of being an artist – it was a dumb hobby, anyway, and I was never any good – but I can’t get rid of the fact that I have a very visual mind. I can’t remember words or voices all that well, but I can remember pictures like it’s nothing. Everything I see almost immediately gets evaluated: whether I can draw it or not, how hard it would be, how long it would take, how much shading, all that bullshit. This would require waaay to much detail, I can tell right away. The way the leafy bunches hiss and shake and bob, ever sifting, ever sliding, is much too intimidating.

I actually nod off for a second – hey, I’m not used to getting up so early – and jerk awake when Ymir flops down upon the distant trunk a hefty brown-furred animal with a meaty _whump._ I glare at her for being so needlessly loud. She glares right back. “Any blood?” I ask innocently.

“No,” she drawls back.

“You sure? Let me see.”

 _“No,”_ she drawls louder.

“Why not?” 

“Because you don’t need to.”

“You told me to be the judge.”

“I told you to sit there and look handsome, and you’re not doing very well at that.”

I slide off the tree and stroll towards her. “Inspector Jean, coming your way.”

“Go the fuck the other way,” she growls, turning her back to me hurriedly, hunching over her latest prize. I trot up behind her with a smirk on my face.

“What’cha hiding?” I wonder, and see immediately what’s up. She’s furiously scrubbing with her sleeve the back of the animal’s neck, which I see now is a groundhog; a dark stain is matting its coffee-colored fur, a stain Ymir is trying and failing to covertly get rid of. I cluck my tongue in disappointment. “That looks like a penalty to me.”

“It bit me,” she says, turning to me. “That’s my blood.”

“Nuh-uh, Marco says you spout that bullshit whenever you’re losing. Looks like half points for you.”

“Of course he betrays me for the new guy,” she sighs. “Fine, I’ll take the half points. But why don’t _you_ try to kill a groundhog without breaking the skin. They’re too fat to bludgeon to death.”

I raise my hands innocently, grinning in triumph at getting her caught. I want to be nastier to her, but I also don’t want to cause a scene. Being a smug bastard will have to suffice. “That’s why I’m the judge.”

“Smug bastard,” she simpers, reading my mind, strolling back toward the woods. “I’ll have to catch myself a bear, then.”

“Try not to let it get you again.”

She squints over her shoulder at me, looking confused. “What’re you spouting?”

I roll my hand, gesturing for her to get on the same page. “Bear. Chest?”

“Ah.” She looks down at her chest, like she’s forgotten it’s marred, then shrugs. “It was a long time ago. That bear’s probably dead and gone by now.”

“Spit on its bones or something out of spite.”

“I’ll do that,” she says, raising a hand and disappearing into the brush. I almost call out to her to ask how long this will take, but she’s already too far away for such a conversation to not be a hassle, so I just give up and go back to my comfy spot on my branch. Maybe I’ll take a real nap this time.

Flies are starting to gather around the neck of the groundhog. I can see them swarming from here. Gross. Good thing the animal’s all the way at the other end. I hate bugs.

Speaking of bugs, I see a suspicious dark shape moving on my sleeve. With horror, I realize it’s a tick; I swat it off, squirming and grimacing and making a groaning noise, and decide right then and there I hate the woods. 

My spine’s still crawling when Marco lumbers out of the woods, cradling in his arms . . . _what._ A fawn. A literal fucking baby deer, and it’s _dead._ Stone fucking cold. “Holy shit,” I mutter as he draws near, depositing the thing gently right by my fucking _feet holy shit it’s a baby._

He tilts his head at me. “Your face is making a funny expression,” he states matter-of-factly at my ogling.

“That’s just . . . a baby deer,” I point out dumbly. Aww, it’s got little spots and little pointy black hooves and a little black nose and everything.

“Yes, she is.”

“You killed a baby deer.” 

He grins, looking a little sad. “Actually, she was already dead. I smelled her. She smelled like a sickness. I’m not letting Ymir take her home or making it count for the game; I’m going to bury her.” He rotates his torso around completely – holy god, that’s weird – and stoops over his own snake back, picking something up that was draped over it: another trio of squirrels and a fish, as if this place needed to smell worse. He lays them neatly over the log next to the others, nothing like Ymir’s haphazard stack. Then he gathers up the fawn in his arms again, like it’s sleeping, like you would a baby, and turns to wander off. His snake tail slides for a while in a curve in the same place until it runs out and follows him into the woods.

I sit there for a bit, watching the shadows swallow him up. The smell is unbearable now that there’s two fish right at my feet. Wow, thanks, you stupid snake.

I wonder where Marco went. 

He literally went to go bury that deer? I mean, the thought of him killing it rubbed me the wrong way because it’s just a baby, but apparently he found it dead. And now he’s burying it. In the middle of his weird-ass contest that he was pretty sure about winning . . .

Haltingly I stand, and immediately kind of regret it because now that I’ve stood I can’t exactly sit down again, can I? I wander into the woods in the general direction Marco had disappeared in, my feet slow and unsure. I probably look like an idiot. Whatever, I can just say I was stretching my legs and getting some exercise and totally not leaning and squinting around for Marco.

I find him because I almost trip over him. He’s so long that he takes up an audacious amount of space, and his dark body cannot shine with the writhing canopy overhead blocking the sunlight, so the thinner end of his tail looks like any other root. I see it at the last second, poking out from behind a bush, as my toes are about to slam into it; with an undignified flail I hop over it, managing to miss it. I follow the nearly black scales all the way up to where Marco is, hunched over by a tree, unaware of my presence.

His torso and about six feet of the snake part is lifted off the ground, curled around in a semicircle in the air, as he hovers over a patch of dirt he’s steadily digging a hole into. His dark shoulders flex as he shovels and drags soil out of the earth, making a neat pile. The dead fawn is curled by his side, delicately placed; if its dark eyes are not half-lidded and dull, and its neck lolling a bit too limply, it can almost look asleep.

Apparently satisfied with the depth of his crude grave, Marco shifts, part of the airborne snake trunk swooping and curving sideways so that Marco himself can turn to the fawn. He hovers over it, looking mournful but deliberate; his fingers descend to gently slide shut its listless eyes, his touch obviously feather-light, and then he slowly gathers it in his arms. The snake trunk loops and twists again so that he bends over the grave, carefully lowering the animal in before letting it slide out of his arms, and then he withdraws, sweeping the mound of displaced dirt back to where it came from with two drags of his arm.

He wipes his hands of excess dirt slowly, straightening up; when he turns and sees me watching him his eyes bulge and his whole thirty-foot body jolts in alarm, whipping away from me. I raise my hands. “Whoa, just me.”

“You surprised me,” he states, pausing for a moment, then hunches over the ground again, his gaze sweeping back and forth over the foliaged earth. The way that snake trunk can raise him and twist and tilt him at various impossible angles makes it look like he’s flying, hovering like a dragonfly. Apparently finding what he’s looking for, Marco gathers his hands under a portion of a small clump of ordinary white wildflowers sprouting in the embrace of a maple’s root flare; he tugs their pale, fuzzy, tangled roots out of the ground with enough skill to leave the structure mostly intact, then swings himself back over to the grave, scooping a handful of the freshly overturned soil over the fawn out of the way for the flowers to be nestled in their new home. He pats the dirt around the flowers to settle them in, then glides back a bit to admire his handiwork.

“Why not just leave it where you found it?” I wonder aloud. “It could’ve been food for something else.”

“There is nothing around here that would eat it,” he replies, glancing at me. “Carnivores don’t come up here.”

I shrug, because that makes sense. “Nice grave,” I say simply, then turn to leave, having seen what I came for. I’m honestly surprised Marco’s mature enough to grasp something like death rites. Where would he even be exposed to that, here in the woods? Who’s he going to see die?

Marco says, “Thank you,” behind me, and I just wave my hand out to the side. When I hear his heavy glide behind me I glance back. He’s following me, gazing calmly at me.

“Aren’t you doing the game thing?” I ask.

“It’s hot,” Marco states. “I’m done.”

“Oh.” Looks like I’m not napping after all.

Marco follows me back into the clearing, his presence silent and constant, making my spine tingle. I’d rather have him in view. The odd camaraderie against Ymir before when he asked me about Trost has died out; with Ymir not around I’m left with little idea of what to even do around him. Like, do I try to make small talk? Ignore him? I’m probably going for the latter.

I wish his catches aren’t there on account of the smell, but my spot with the branch is too comfy to give up. I turn and settle down again against it, kicking my feet up again with a sigh, crossing my arms across my stomach. Marco slithers right up to the log – aw, come on, couldn’t he choose somewhere else to be? – and pauses, apparently trying to decide what to do with himself, before settling down by my feet, pillowing his head in his arms on the bark. The snake trunk flexes and undulates, sliding toward me; it rolls flush along the tree, lying stretched out in the log’s shallow shadow, and settles down. He’s so long that most of it coils under the crown of the fallen tree behind me, under the branches digging into the ground.

I try not to shift away, no matter how much I want to. My ankles tingle from his proximity; I glance down at the dark, shiny scales resting on the ground against the tree not two feet below to my right. If I flop my hand to the side it’ll land right on his pebbled back, not that I ever will. The day I touch _that_ is never going to happen; it looks constantly wet and cold and slimy. How Ymir could stand sitting curled up with him before, acting like it’s normal, is beyond me.

He tilts his head at me. I stare back. “What?” I ask eventually.

“You have a strange look on your face,” he intones. “You look uncomfortable.”

Well, I fucking am. “I’m just . . . not sure why that’s, like. Right there.” I gesture vaguely with my chin down at the snake tail right next to me. As in, get it the fuck away.

“It’s shade,” he says matter-of-factly, like this is obvious, not shifting an inch. “I’m hot.”

“Right. Got it,” I mutter. So, not moving. Fantastic.

Marco blinks slowly at me, continuing to stare. God, that makes me uncomfortable. Makes me feel like my face is weird enough to never look away from. I’m already edgy about it from Eren fucking Jaeger; I don’t need the friendly village naga to add to the fun. “Can you stop staring?” I mutter.

His face screws up in confusion. “O- Uh- is looking bad?”

“It’s rude,” I say bluntly. Marco immediately looks dismayed.

“S-Sorry! I didn’t know it was- I mean- you’re just new and- Ymir and you are so- sorry,” he finishes lamely. Like he’s afraid I’ll yell at him he looks away hurriedly, staring with wide eyes at the tree he’s leaning on, stiff as a board and not looking like he’s going to move for the next several months.

I roll my eyes. “It’s not a big deal,” I concede, taking pity, because he looks downright pathetic. He glances at me sheepishly, then relaxes visibly.

“Y’all are some morbid motherfuckers,” I say. When Marco tilts his head I go on. “Like, making a game around breaking animal necks with your bare hands. You guys get your kicks from some gross-ass stuff.” 

Marco looks contemplative. “Doesn’t your village revolve around killing?” 

“Well, yeah,” I mutter defensively, “but we _hunt._ We don’t make games out of it. We actually _use_ the animals for stuff. The skins and meat and things. And we don’t, like, physically snap their spines. At least, I don’t think.” Because how the fuck would I know? The furthest I’ve gotten is crafting some lame-ass arrowheads and embarrassing myself in front of mythological creatures.

“Ymir does all that, though,” Marco protests. “She needs game. She needs to work. She needs money. She says the town taxes her too much.”

“ _Everyone_ says the police tax them too much,” I say tiredly.

“She says they do it because she’s foreign.”

“Well, she needs to deal with it. We don’t like people not from Trost.” I lean my head back and close my eyes. “That’s just a reality of life.”

When he doesn’t answer I peek through my lashes at him. He’s staring at me, looking sorrowful. “Why don’t you like foreign people? I’m foreign.”

“Well, you wouldn’t do very good in Trost, then,” I say bluntly. Was him stating the obvious an attempt to convince me my logic is flawed? “That’s not even counting the whole freaky . . . . snake tail. Without that you’d just be shunned, but as you are they’d kill you.”

“Ymir says that too,” he murmurs.

“Well, it’s true.” I’m not going to sugarcoat it for him. “Shoot you in the street or something. I mean, you can go berserk and stuff, but you wouldn’t stand a chance against the military police.”

Maybe my mouth shouldn’t be running. I’m not scared of him anymore; I guess that’s my cue to be honest. People think I’m an asshole for it, but that’s their problem.

“Jinae loved people,” Marco says.

“Who’s Jinae?”

“The village I was born in. Jinae. We loved people. There were all kinds of people there. Dark, pale, ebony, ivory, people with squinty eyes and people with red eyes and yellow eyes and- and just all kinds of people. But Trost only has people like you?” 

“Thaaat’s right. And we like it that way.” I ponder what he said. Ymir gave me the impression Marco doesn’t remember anything before he got turned into a naga. I wonder if that was unintentional, or if she even knows she’s clearly wrong.

There’s a pause. Then: “Well, I don’t think that’s very practical,” Marco decides lightly. “There are all kinds of nice people in the world.”

 _Nice people that abduct people in the middle of the night and turn them into things like you,_ I want to say, but I’m not about to trigger that damn berserk state. I just shrug. “Trost is nice enough without, like, riffraff dirtying it up all over the place.”

“My sister is not ‘riffraff,’” Marco says suddenly, steadily, “nor dirty, or not nice.”

“Yeah, well,” I start without the intention to finish. I regret speaking; now I just want the conversation to end.

Marco shifts up a bit, propping his head up in his hands and watching me. Then he seems to remember he’s not supposed to do that, and his eyes widen and flit to stare hard at the top of my head. I roll my eyes heavenward in exasperation for a second. Even without the snake tail, this kid wouldn’t last a day among the teenagers of Trost. Between his dark skin and complete lack of social skill, they’d rip him apart.

“What’s your last name?” he asks, and I groan internally. 

“Kirschtein.”

“Keer-“ he tries, then frowns. “Keer . . . sach . . . teen. K-“ 

Okay, I have got to interject before he mangles my name further. “Kirschtein,” I repeat.

Marco mumbles it under his breath a few times for practice, then tries, “Kirs-tein?”

“Kirschtein.”

“Kir . . .schtein. Kirschtein. Kirschtein! Am I getting it right?”

“Now you are,” I agree, listening to his accent bend and twist my name around. Odd.

“Jean Kirschtein,” he says slowly. “That is a mouthful.”

I almost make a perverted joke, but he probably wouldn’t get it. “A delicious mouthful.” Well, that’s less dirty than what I was going to say.

Marco wrinkles his nose. “You probably are not delicious.” He makes a weird face then, opening his jaw and jamming his tongue into the roof of his mouth. I have less than a second to ponder what the hell he’s doing before something shoots out of the darkness under his tongue. I jump a foot in the air. It’s _another_  tongue, thin and dark and forked at the end; it hovers out of his mouth a full six goddamn inches for a second, the tip whirring, then disappears back into his mouth as fleetingly as it appeared. He closes his mouth and shakes his head. “Nope. Wouldn’t taste good.”

I gape at him, and he starts to look anxious. “Wh-“ Then he claps his hand over his mouth, eyes huge. “I’m sorry. That was weird. That is really weird.”

“Hell _yeah_ that was really weird,” I repeat dumbly. “What the hell was that?”

“Smelling you?” It sounds like a question. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that. That probably looks weird and I do it all the time around Ymir but she doesn’t care and I forgot- and I’m trying to make you not afraid of me but I forgot and that didn’t really help-“

“Well, uh,” I just grunt dumbly, trying to make sense of all this. “Just, uh, yes, that was really weird.” I pause. “What do I smell like?”

What a dumb fucking question. Why the fuck did I ask that? “Salty,” Marco says quietly, still pouting and not looking at me. “I don’t know. Different from Ymir. More . . . male? I guess. Also nervous. You smell nervous.”

“You can tell when I’m nervous?” I ignore the salty part and the perverted implications of that. Wow, I need to get my mind out of the gutter. 

He shrugs, nodding. “Not as bad as you used to be. But still nervous. That . . . probably didn’t help. I know normal people don’t do that, so I was stopping myself, but I forgot for a second.”

Whoever made this guy, whoever took him and turned his legs into a tail, they really did their fucking homework. “Can snakes do that?”

He nods. “Wow,” I mutter, raising my eyebrows contemplatively. “Yet another reason to avoid snakes.”

Marco shrinks back shamefully, and I realize what I said was kind of mean. “Wait, okay, I didn’t mean it like that,” I say quickly. “It was supposed to be a joke about, like, snakes being creepy and smelling people, but- okay, you know what, just ignore what I said. It was a dumb joke. Sorry.”

“Okay,” Marco says slowly, still looking nervously at me. “You’re very strange, Jean Kirschtein.”

 _“I’m_ very strange?” I repeat incredulously. “You should get a mirror, Marco . . . whatever your last name is.”

“I have a mirror,” Marco says, “and I know, I’m stranger. Bodt.”

“Butt?”

“No, _Bodt._ Marco Bodt. That’s my name. My full name, I mean.”

“Marco Butt.”

“M- it’s _Bodt.”_

“Marco Butt,” I insist, smirking.

His lips curl up in a grin. “Stop. It’s Bodt.”

“Marco Butt. Marco Snakebutt.”

Marco guffaws. His laugh is deep and vibrant; it’s easier to notice when we’re not both laughing at Ymir’s expense. “No! Definitely not Marco Snakebutt.”

“Sorry, that’s how I’m going to address you.”

“No-o! Marco Bodt, Ymir Bodt, Lynne Bodt, Samuel Bodt, Ilse Bodt. Definitely no Snakebutts.”

“Ymir Bodt,” I repeat, snorting. It doesn’t sound like it fits her. “Well, I finally know her last name. Who’re those other people? Your family?”

He nods. “Used to be. Mom, Dad, cousin. Not sure where they are now. We left so long ago.”

The laughter has left his voice, as well as the grin from his face, replaced by that same weary look from before when Ymir had been spouting about Reiner. I frown, not liking this sight. “Well,” I say definitively, seeking to distract him, “nice to meet you, Marco Bodt.”

Marco beams at me again. “You said it right this time. Nice to meet you too, Jean Kirschtein.”

Maybe he’s a little all right. 

“Ymir Snakebutt,” I mutter, suddenly thinking of this, then snort.

Marco giggles, hiding his face in his arms for a moment until he’s recovered, then grins up at me. “Don’t say that to her. She’ll probably kill you. I won’t let her, though. You’re nice. I like you." 

For once, that doesn’t annoy me. “I’m gonna say it to her.”

“I’ll protect you as long as you don’t call her riffraff again,” Marco says sternly. “That was mean. I don’t like it.”

“All right, all right,” I concede, raising my hands defensively. “I’ll keep it to myself.”

I catch movement over Marco’s shoulder and jerk my chin to indicate to him Ymir has returned, grinning in that smug way of hers, her hands full with some unidentifiable creature. Upon seeing her Marco perks up immediately, any lingering malcontent dissipated at the sight of his sister, and the audaciously long snake tail beside me jerks to life and slides through the grass as he gathers it underneath him to gambol lithely up to her. “I’m done, Ymir! Let’s count.” 

“Done already?” Ymir repeats, setting down the black mass of fur in her hands. It’s two identical animals; I recognize them as skunks. “Wow, today was a slow day. Got too hot?”

“Yep,” Marco confirms, and I get confused because it’s not even that warm out. It’s actually kind of chilly from the wind. “I’m sorry I didn’t get more. I have fifty-seven. You have . . .” He peers down at her pile for literally half a second before saying, “sixty. Oh! You beat me.” He doesn’t sound like he particularly minds. Holy shit, how did he count up points that fast? 

Ymir smirks. “As I knew I would.” 

From over here I can see Marco’s mouth do that weird arrangement as his snake tongue flits out. “You cheated, I see.”

“I caught her,” I call down helpfully. Ymir rolls her eyes.

“Get down here. Time to go, Jimbles.” I groan and stand at having to move, trudging over to where they are. Ymir kneels down over her cache, dragging over her bag; from it she withdraws several long strips of thin paper that she uses to begin wrapping up the dead animals and stowing the bundles in her bag. “Even with the blood, I still won. Whoa, you really slacked, baby.”

Marco grimaces, like this is an actual tragedy. “I’m sorry. I’ll get you double next week. You are coming back next week, right?”

“Of course! And even if something comes up, Jimbles over here will be there to help you out,” Ymir declares, standing and clapping me obnoxiously on the shoulder; I stumble under the force of her strike. “If he can even help.” Done with her own, she walks down to Marco’s pile and starts to wrap up his catches.

Marco turns to me. “You’re coming again next time?”

I nod. “Ymir’s teaching me stuff, so. I guess I am.”

Marco looks really, really excited at that. “Good! I mean, cool! Awesome. I hope you learn a lot.” He doesn’t seem to know what to say, so he just grins and beams and his tail does that twisting thing. I snort at his enthusiasm. 

Ymir comes back over, her now very full satchel slung over her back, plowing her shoulder into me as she walks by. “It’s late. Your poor mommy and daddy are probably worried sick about their precious Jimbles.” 

“They know where I am,” I protest, grumbling, but she probably doesn’t hear me. Figures.

Marco bounces up to Ymir and sweeps her up in a tight hug, kissing her on the cheek. She grins and reaches up to ruffle his hair roughly. “See you next week, kiddo. I'll get you back for that duck thing, I swear it.”

“See you!” Marco squeaks back, setting her down. He turns his freckled face to me. “Bye, Jean!”

I wave shallowly in his direction. “See ya.”

I turn and walk behind Ymir toward the tree line, stretching my back from its soreness gathered on the tree. Ymir says, “Next week you’d better be up by the time I get there, all right? Go to bed earlier or something.”

“All right,” I grumble, not about to admit just how early I go to bed on a normal basis. I’m not giving her any more ammunition to make fun of me; I’m determined not to let my lack of a life join her quiver of petty insults.

As we trudge under the trees I glance back over my shoulder. Marco hunches in the same place he was, watching us go, looking like he’s about to follow. He doesn’t.

v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v

Reiner literally will _not_ stop accosting me with questions about yesterday. I tell him everything I can, being as vague as humanly possible, but he keeps exclaiming over it, popping his head into the back of the bakery with a new query constantly.

Like right now. “So, is she, like, inhuman or something?” he demands, his big bony head sticking through the doorway into my workspace inquisitively. “Where the fuck does she even go to get that much stuff? I’m lucky if we can nab three animals when Bertl and I go out between us, especially this time of the year. But she comes home with ten! Where does she go that’s that rich?”

“Uh,” I say dumbly, staring at my dough-covered hands, busy kneading a huge white mass into something more deserving of the title _edible._ “I dunno. Out. Around.”

“Where did _you_ go with her?”

“S-South . . . east,” I lie badly, but Reiner doesn’t notice. He falls silent, and I peek over my shoulder to see he’s gotten distracted by a customer. Good. Picking harmless details out of yesterday’s adventure is proving to be a bit difficult.

Idly I start making shapes out of the dough, like kids do with mud when they’re little. In an act of treachery, I craft a little horse’s head, then quickly crush it into a pancake again. Ugh. I do _not_ look like a horse.

I twist the pancake around between my fingers, twirling it distractedly, thinking about Ymir and Marco. Odd motherfuckers. I’m not sure how successful this whole hunting-teaching endeavor will be with those two oddballs. Might as well stick around for the novelty. It’d be lying if I said this isn’t going to be interesting.

I glance down at my hands. The pancake is now a little stick, stiff and sticky and covered in patches of flour. On a whim I fold the very end over once, poking in two eyes on the top. There. It’s a snake. 

I stare at it for a second before remembering myself and mashing it into an unrecognizable ball before anyone can wander in and see. Snake imagery and paraphernalia is strictly off-limits, considered demonic. Making little snakes out of dough in the backroom isn’t Trost’s idea of a healthful pastime.

I look down at my hands again. The ball I’d compressed the snake into, the way I’d dug my fingers into it, kind of makes it look like a duck head.

When Reiner pops his head back into the backroom I can’t explain to him for the life of me why I’m giggling like an idiot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a long time, I'm sorry! I finished it ON Marco's birthday, but I posted it 50 minutes after it ended; that counts, right? Happy birthday, Marco Bodt.
> 
> Okay WOW. There are tons of you now. A bit of a shitstorm happened between this update and the last, which resulted in this goddamn fic's AUDACIOUS amounts of hits and kudos. If I become known as the one who gave three dick Marco to the world for the rest of my life, I will die happy. 
> 
> I love you all so much! I can't even link to all the fanart because there's so much! It's compiled on my blog or on Tumblr in general under the **fic: dichotomy** tag. Thank you guys so much!
> 
> Massive thanks to everyone who has been such an enormous help to me: maggins, msrenai21, greenalms, avoidingavoidance, balliste, and, god, the countless others.
> 
> Okay, this is real important. I have never touched a bow in my life. I have never fired an arrow in my life. I barely go outside, for god's sake. Everything in this chapter was compiled from reading online articles. If you've fired a bow in your life, PLEASE TELL ME if I got anything wrong, because I'm sure I did!


	7. Scar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things are better left unsaid.
> 
>  **SCAR** | _noun_ | a mark left on the skin where a wound has not healed completely
> 
>  **Trigger warning:** mentions of self-harm and gore.

**Scar**

“Walls?” my mother repeats.

My dad nods. “Walls. All around Trost.”

“Why on earth do we need _walls?”_ she wonders, sitting down at her place at the head of the table. “What could the point possibly be? We’re never attacked. We aren’t at war.”

“Who knows, dear. Pass the corn?”

My mom does so, the look on her face implying she’s still confused about why Trost needs something like a wall. “It’s just silly to me. I realize we need to protect ourselves, but we haven’t experienced anything _near_ enough to warrant a _wall._ It’s almost wintertime, for god’s sake! Who’s going to build a wall in the cold?”

“I heard if they don’t get enough volunteers they’ll start drafting us,” Thomas intones drolly, taking the corn from my dad and spooning some onto his plate. We’re all seated at the table for a nice homely dinner of veal, carrots, corn, and whatever the fuck this other weird-ass yellow-skinned vegetable is on the side. “As early as this month. It’s on the notice board.”

He hands me the corn and I take it, scooping myself an amount lesser beings would consider ridiculous. This shit is good. It’s got little balls of cheese dotted in it. I ask, “What’s the age for the draft thing?”

Thomas rolls his eyes skyward. “Seventeen,” he sighs, “so you don’t have to worry about doing actual work anytime soon.”

“I wasn’t asking for _that,”_ I snarl right back, even though I totally was wondering whether this shit applies to me.

“Boys,” my mother says sternly, and we both fall silent, though I shoot Thomas a nasty glare before subsiding. Fucking condescending bastard.

“What else does the board say, Thomas?” Dad inquires quietly between bites of veal. He’s a really good cook; he and my mom switch making dinner every night, but I like his nights better. I prefer meat pretty rare, and he always makes sure to broil mine to appropriate redness. Mom just kind of fries it all to equal oblivion.

“The wall’s supposed to be forty feet tall when completed,” Thomas drones on, sounding exactly like the human personification of the most boring document ever, “with seven watchtowers spaced equally apart. They have a blueprint set up. It’s very extensive.”

“Are you going to volunteer?” my mother asks.

Thomas shrugs. “I might. If my friends do it.”

Mom scoffs. “Pointless project. _My_ tax money is not funding this, no ma’am. They’ll have to take it from my cold dead hands.” I sympathize. I have a similar disposition toward money; namely, it’s got to be invested somewhere useful. I usually spend everything on food like the fatass I am.

“I’m sure it’ll die out,” Dad sighs, “because no one particularly cares for it to happen.”

“Enough about that, then,” my mother decides with finality between bites. She glances up at me and I unwillingly meet her gaze. She’s a wide, stout woman, shorter than me, and wears her long brown hair in a ponytail most of the time. “What did you do today, Jean?” she wonders aloud, slicing herself a square of meat and sticking it in her mouth.

I shrug, resting my cheek in my hand as I slide my vegetables around my plate with my fork. “I dunno. Worked.”

“Nn-huh. How was work?”

“Good.”

“Just good? Anything interesting happen?”

“Nah.” Now if we were talking about six days ago instead of today . . .

I sit there for a moment and idly wonder out of boredom exactly how long it would take to convince my family I’d exchanged names with the naga. I imagine how I would first say it, and their arguments and dismissals, and then my insistence. Would they feel sympathy for Ymir? Or disgust? Would they want to meet Marco, or turn Ymir in and embark to hunt him once they know exactly where he is? Or would they just call me crazy?

How would I feel about that, exactly? Probably like they had it coming. But it would be a pity to ruin their little arrangement.

“That Reiner is so generous,” Dad is saying, and I return my attention to the conversation in case it involves me. “He gives me a discount whenever I stop by.” I suppress a shudder; it’s embarrassing as fuck when my parents visit when I’m at the bakery, especially because Reiner can maintain a conversation with them for _hours._ I hum and nod in response.

“Is he seeing that Hoover boy?” Mom wonders aloud. “I don’t like how he hangs around that place all the time.”

I snort. “They’re getting around to it.” Slowly. Agonizingly.

“When are you going to bring home a nice boy or girl, Jean?” my dad asks me innocently, just as I take a sip of my water, which was a bad move because I almost spit it right back out.

“Dad!” Not fucking _again._

“What? I was just wondering.”

I stab the mystery vegetable and throw it into my mouth with grumpy ferocity. It’s watery. “Told you I’m not into anybody,” I grumble.

He sighs. “No grandchildren for me at this rate.” And it’s true. Between single me and Thomas who has some boyfriend, it doesn’t look like the Kirschteins are progressing biologically further than us two. “I need more babies to play with. The neighbor’s kids are-” He wrinkles his nose, waving his hand. “-rude.”

I shrug. “Thomas can adopt.”

“Let’s not make this about me,” Thomas sniffs shortly. 

Thankfully, my dad focuses his needy attention on Thomas and his whoever-it-is and not on me, so I can wolf down the rest of my meal in peace.

But it doesn’t look like I’m going to be escaping anytime soon, because as we’re all rising with our plates to stack them on the counter my mother calls, “Jean, help with the dishes.”

I groan but don’t protest further, because what is this keeping me from, sleeping? I’m not tired. I nod past my mother’s admonishment that it’s not polite to make such lazy noises and stand beside her at the counter. She hands me the towel, wordlessly indicating I’m drying, and sets to methodically scrubbing the dishes.

I thought she asked me to get me to be useful for once, but it’s apparent that’s not the case when after a lull she intones, “So tomorrow.”

“So tomorrow,” I repeat.

“You going out with that Ymir again?”

“Yup.”

“And where are you going with her?”

I shrug nonchalantly. “Wherever she whisks me away to.”

“To hunt?” she asks as she hands me a glass. Most other families have wooden cutlery, but my dad saw this nice china-and-glass set in a trader’s tent once and fell in love. My mom was pissed at first that he wasted money on such a frivolous purchase, but these shiny white plates grew on her. 

I refrain from a sarcastic comment, like that we’re actually going out there to do fun stuff like pet squirrels and swim and talk to nagas. “Yup.”

My mom’s mouth twists ever so slightly. “Mh hmm. And you didn’t think to tell me before you went out to do something like this?”

“I didn’t think it would cause an issue,” I reply. 

“I don’t like you out there with that woman,” my mom says. 

“It’s fine, Mom.”

“I really don’t like the thought of you alone in the wilderness with that woman. It’s just . . .”

“God, mom,” I snort, “she’s not gonna rape me or anything. Actually I don’t even think she’s into guys-“

“Don’t joke about that sort of thing,” my mother cuts in. “Even so, if _anything_ happens, I’ll know it was her. I hope you’re being careful.”

“We haven’t been attacked by bears yet, so I think I’m doing pretty good.”

“You know what I mean,” she says impatiently. “Keep an eye on your things. Don’t bring anything valuable. You never know when she’s going to try and filch something.”

“I don’t think-“

“And don’t tell her anything personal, Jean. Nothing about your home life. Don’t let her think she’s welcome in this house, you understand me? Bad enough she even knows where we live.”

“I-“

“And watch how she speaks to you. Her type have absolutely no respect for other people. If she says anything even remotely threatening, or inappropriate, or suggestive-“

“All right, I get it,” I mumble quietly, not mentioning that I’m pretty sure Ymir’s done all of these things, maybe even all at once.

“You let that woman know we’ll be watching her. Not one toe out of line.“

“I’ll let her know,” I assure her. Despite how intimidating my mom is, I doubt Ymir will even care about what’s being said about her. I wonder if she knows her warning’s got to apply to Marco too, but then I remember he doesn’t have toes, and suppress an ugly giggle. 

v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v

I’m late again.

I went to bed right after dinner and I still oversleep. This time it’s the thunderous knocking that rouses me, and I’m fully aware of the fact that I’m still in bed and I completely should not be before Thomas even comes over to shake me awake. I tumble out of bed with a bit less franticness than I did last week, because I know what to expect, and honestly I’m not sure whether to look forward to today or not.

Exercise. Ew.

“JEAN, WALK OFF YOUR DAMN MORNING WOOD AND GET OUT HERE.”

Oooh, yeah, that’s gonna land some points with my parents.

Ymir is tapping her foot by the time I open the door, eyebrow raised. “Didn’t I say not to oversleep?” she wonders dryly.

“Sorry,” I grunt, closing my door behind me. A passing glance at the sky tells me the sun has barely risen. “Is it . . . earlier? Even earlier? Than last week- Christ, it is.”

“Needs to be,” Ymir says shortly, hopping off my porch and striding swiftly down the road. “Let’s go.”

I had the foresight to bake Marco’s chocolate whatevers the day before, so when Ymir hops the counter (how long would it take to just go around, seriously) and grabs the bag it’s mine she holds. The walk is brisk and quiet; I’ll let her go over whatever it is I’m going to be doing when we get there. It’s far too early to initiate anything even vaguely resembling small talk. I never got around to telling Reiner what she said. Eh, I guess I can let it slide. 

It’s one of those chilly days, the ones that really tell you autumn is here and winter is coming. My spontaneous breakfast is another apple, courtesy of Ymir (which I still find bullshit, by the way; I’m a growing boy and need more sustenance). When we hit the clearing less than an hour later I make for the log, but Ymir clucks her tongue and shakes her head. “Not going there.” Her stride has not diminished in speed or purpose; she walks straight to the other end of the glade and continues on through the trees, heading north. I jog to catch up with her, wondering what the hell she’s about.

I have no idea what our destination could be right now; the only thing I can think of to the north is the mountain Marco and I climbed, and it’s not like I’m agreeing to climb that anytime soon. “So where are we going?” 

“You’ll see.” 

“Where are we _going?_ Not everything has to be so friggin’ ambiguous, you know.”

She sighs. “We’re meeting up with Marco.”

“Marco? Isn’t he supposed to be . . . like, doing that . . . warm-up nap thing?”

“Hasn’t gone yet. Start paying attention to the route we’re taking, Jimbles, because you’re going to walk him up to bask every week. He tells me you were huffing and puffing all the way up and down that path. That true?”

Damn naga betrayed me. Unbelievable. And we were getting along so well. “I was not _huffing_ and _puffing.”_

“You’re out of shape. A nice hike once a week should help with that. See, this is why I didn’t want to tell you until we got there. You complain about everything.”

“I do _not!”_

“. . . Wow.”

I clamp my mouth shut, simmering sullenly, letting out my indignation on a rock by my toe. It goes flying a good twenty feet. I wish I could do the same to Ymir. Fuck, I actually am trekking that damn mountain again. It’s too early for anything even vaguely resembling physical exertion.

Ymir slows as the ground becomes sandier, transitioning from leafy forest to rocky mountainside, whistling a tune quite loudly. She breaks off to call, “Marco? You here yet?”

Our only answer is a weak, wordless groan, wafting through the air from somewhere to our left. I’m momentarily spooked, but Ymir wanders toward it, leaning and peeking around trees and boulders for the culprit; she circles around a particularly large breed of the latter and looks down. “Ah.”

I circle around too to see. Coil upon coil of thick, dark snake tail is clumped up in a shiny, irregular ball in the dirt, pressed up against the rock, and I’m assuming it’s Marco because Marco himself is nowhere to be seen. Then the whole twisting arrangement starts shifting slowly, and a loop falls right off the top to thump messily to the ground, revealing Marco embedded within with his head buried in his arms; the tail is curled around and under him like a bird’s nest.

He lifts his head in a wobbly fashion, slowly blinking and squinting up at us. His shaggy black hair is a tangled mess, and the bags under his eyes make him look like he hasn’t slept in days. “Huh,” he grunts groggily, then plunks his head back down into his arms.

Ymir kicks the tail with the side of her foot. “Get up, fatass.”

_“Uhhhgh.”_

“That wasn’t any language I recognize,” Ymir says, kicking him again. “Come on, get up. Jean’s going to walk you up to bask, remember?”

“No,” comes the sleepy reply, muffled by the fact that Marco’s face is smushed against the tail. I know the feeling, dude. I didn’t want to get up today and hike either.

“Yes you do,” Ymir sighs, twisting and reaching into her satchel. She withdraws from it a metal canteen, which she unstops and tips on its side directly over Marco’s head. I almost laugh, because that’s fucking mean. A little bit of clear water splashes into Marco’s frizzy hair; he starts and recoils with a wordless groan of protest, shaking his head weakly. 

“‘M up. ‘M up.” Marco yawns hugely, slowly grabbing the rock he’s pressed up against and hauling himself higher into something resembling a standing position. I stare, unnerved. He’s obviously tired, and that’s fine, because so am I, and it’s only weirdos like Ymir that aren’t at this hour of the morning. But the way Marco’s moving is . . . off. It’s way too slow, like he’s trying to move through molasses. 

Ymir snorts and stows the canteen away. She notices the look on my face. “He’s slow in the morning,” she explains. “It’s the cold. Makes him tired and sluggish.”

“Y- _You’re_ . . . tired an’ . . . sluggish,” Marco slurs weakly, rubbing his eyes in slow motion.

“Plus he’s just aways been a heavy sleeper. It’s almost cute, but it takes forever for him to _move,”_ Ymir says, nudging him with her foot yet again. “And no one’s going to carry you, baby.”

“‘M _up,”_ he groans again, swatting weakly in her direction, his hand moving sluggishly enough for any snail worth its salt to get out of the way. He drags it down the side of his face, sighing, and his eyes haul themselves up to meet mine. He blinks lethargically a few times, his face blank, before inching toward me - and when I say inching I mean _inching,_ because he’s so slow I can probably walk several circles around the whole of him before he relocates significantly. His hand eases its way up through the air; I roll my eyes and quicken the inevitable process, grabbing Marco’s hand before it’s at optimal chest level and shaking it. His arm wobbles limply. I pause for a second, frowning; his skin isn’t really clammy, but it’s oddly cool, like he’s been holding it against ice for a moment or two. It’s like how mine get in the cold.

“Mm- _hm,”_ Marco hums thickly, this dopy grin on his sleepy face. Ymir guffaws obnoxiously next to me; I shoot a glare at her before realizing I’m still holding Marco’s hand. When I let go it drops like a bag of rocks, swinging heavily against his side, like he can’t even bring himself to control it. 

Wow. _I’m_ not even this bad in the morning. How the fuck does he climb a mountain like this?

Ymir whacks me on the shoulder. “You know the way. Come back to the glade when he’s up there.”

Marco weaves from side to side as she turns and strides away into the forest, blinking after her like he still doesn’t comprehend what’s going on, before slowly rotating northward. He tips forward onto his hands, palms thudding stiffly into the dirt, shoulder blades bunching together toward his spiky spine, and pauses a second to rub his eyes again before slowly trudging across the ground. 

I follow him wordlessly, trying not to be unnerved. Every time I think I might be getting familiar with how he acts something new surprises me. The tail barely curves as he walks heavily on his hands, arms stiffly locked straight, head hanging and nodding because it looks like he’s trying to keep himself awake. I wonder if he’s ever just given in and fallen asleep on the way. Where does he even sleep, anyway? A dark and gloomy cave? Does he just curl up in a random place on the ground at night? That sounds fucking terrifying. We had campouts in Eren’s backyard when we were little; I used to lie awake marveling and cursing at how fucking noisy it is outside at night.

I’m kind of grateful he’s so tired, because then we’re not obligated to speak. It’s like herding a sheep. He seems so tired that he’s brainless.

The birdsong trails off behind us as the trees thin out and then disappear as we breach the bare terrain of the mountainside. Following the nigh on incoherent Marco apparently, surprisingly, paid off, because we emerge with the same view of the mountainside we saw two weeks ago when we had to go dislodge that tree. I can’t believe that was only two weeks ago. 

I take a second to admire the view as Marco trudges tiredly out of the brush and shadows, looking on the very verge of collapse, but the second sunlight hits his skin his eyes flutter fully open, and he rears up to a vertical position, sighing. He liquidly curls the rest of his slimy body sideways into the sun-baked grass, quick to get it out of the shade, and pauses to stretch his arms. He’s mumbling under his breath, too low for me to hear.

He blinks slowly over at me. “Hello.” He looks a little more awake, at least enough to greet me properly. 

“Hi.” 

That done and apparently satisfied, he falls forward on his hands and starts crawling again, yawning widely, headed for the beaten path on the mountain’s face that winds its way skyward. The wind is stronger here, rippling through the stiff yellow grass with a steady rush, tossing and tousling my hair, grasping at my sleeves and cuffs. I grab my arms and hug them to my chest, not looking forward to the imminent trek. It’s windy and cold, but the sun is still beating down upon my head and shoulders, and I already feel the prickle of the beginnings of a sunburn. I burn like a fucking tomato. It sucks.

Oh goddamn motherfucking shit on a motherfucking goddamn stick, my calves are already burning, and we only just started ascending. How am I _this_ out of shape? I’m not a weak guy! Sure, I’m kind of thin, but that’s just my naturally lean and limber physique, sure to win the hearts of guys and girls everywhere. Especially the heart of Mikasa. If she hangs around scrawny Eren all the time, she’s got to have a thing for sinewy guys.

Marco crawls ahead of me, puffy eyes shut, walking on his hands up the path. The tail makes minute little turns every once in a while, his spine forming a very shallow zigzag, so he never really walks (slithers?) straight. How hard would that be, honestly? Not very. Just walk. Straight line. Honestly.

“Hello,” he says again as he’s passing by above my head. We’ve gotten to the part of the path where it first folds back on itself in its slow ascent.

“You said that already.”

“I know,” he mumbles, along with a few other things I don’t catch, but I can’t ask because his elbow wobbles and bends as his hand comes down for a step, and he promptly faceplants in the dirt, one arm crumpled underneath him and the other stretched out behind him. He utters a groan and goes still. 

I guffaw loudly, staggering a bit. “Are you okay?” I call up, but he doesn’t answer. I keep walking, stepping over and around the motionless scaly tail and rounding the bend to ascend to where Marco is. “Did you die?”

He wobbles his head to and fro a bit. I squat down next to him, gazing down at him. “You alive?”

His ribcage puffs up for a moment as he grunts, “No.”

“You’re dead?”

“M-hm.”

“Well . . . that’s not good. Ymir’s gonna kill me.”

“M-hm.”

“Pretty gruesomely.”

“M-hm.”

“I thought you said you were gonna protect me?” I wonder aloud, poking his shoulder. I frown, then rest my knuckles against his arm curiously. It feels sun-baked and warm to the touch, but still has a slight underlying chill, down deeper under the skin. So odd.

“S’ touchi’ me,” he grumbles into the ground. “‘M tire.”

“Well, you won’t get up, so.”

Marco slowly turns his head to the left until it’s his cheek smushed against the ground instead of his entire face, squinting open one eye to look up at me. I raise an eyebrow expectantly. “I am, I am,” he sighs breathily, dragging his arms up and pressing his hands into the ground, slowly rising. 

“All right,” I say, rising myself, and I’m about to step to the side to give him room to go on ahead again when the snake tail suddenly springs to life; it pulls forward and bunches up right behind Marco in a big clump of thick dark loops, upturned at the sides so the edges go past Marco’s chest, and the movement is so rapid and goddamn _slippery_ that my joints lock and I just wobble there staring like an idiot. I feel a push - a solid _something pressing against my heel and it’s a lot stronger than it should and-_ I look down, see a dark coil of the tail pressing against my foot, and the electricity of shock surges up my leg like lightning. I skitter away, nearly tripping, arms flailing a bit. My toes curl, my ankle tensing up. 

Marco squints around. “Wherdja go?”

I wiggle my foot around, trying to get rid of the feeling of that thing touching me. “Uh. Here.”

Apparently the purpose of that whole . . . _bunching_ thing was to hoist Marco up, because he does so, rising into an upright position and swiping dirt off his face before stretching yet again. He doesn’t seem to have noticed my momentary freakout, and I’m not sure how he would react if he knew I almost just fell down the mountain trying to get away from that thing he drags around.

The rest of the walk is quiet, and god fucking damn it I really _am_ fucking out of shape, because by the time we get up to that rocky outcrop we dislodged the tree from I’m dragging my feet and sweating and breathing hard. I pull my shirt away from my chest a bit, shaking it to get some air and relief. My skin’s damp. I’m a mess. 

I look up at the scratchy black stone column and its grass-waterfall path. “I don’t have to go up there again, do I?”

“Nuh-uh,” Marco sighs tiredly, plodding past me on stiff arms and hands. “Ymir says you go back down now.”

“All right,” I mutter, stepping aside to give the sliding tail room. Lots of room. As much room as possible. 

Marco approaches the vertical path and rears up again, hands seeking, and slowly starts hauling himself up. His fingers grope and swipe at the wall blindly. I wonder if he’s even going to make it up there.

Eventually he heaves himself over the edge and disappears; the length of time it takes that scaly monstrosity to follow him is a lot longer than is comfortable, weaving and smoothly sliding with a limpness that might make me feel a bit more at ease if it isn’t for the slow zigzags of its spine, a constant reminder of the fact that it’s living and feeling and it moves and it’s awfully strong-

I turn my back. Time to go back to Ymir.

v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v

Just kidding. Time to go back to the _fucking mountain._

The second I wearily step foot in that fucking clearing again, Ymir lifts that fucking smug-ass condescending simpering grin and tells me I took my sweet time getting back (I FUCKING GOT LOST) and if I start now, I can get back to Marco and his fucking basking spot in time to walk him back here- just FUCK. 

After throwing a tantrum worthy of my legendary toddler years, which mostly consisted of me swearing and whining and pouting, and retracing my steps (I GET LOST AGAIN) all the way through the rustling woods and then up the windy winding path, except alone this time, I’m finally back before that waterfall of grass amidst stone and ready for a six-year nap. 

The rock is lifeless, and I don’t know if Marco’s done with his freaky weirdo warmup naptime or not, but the internal debate about whether to call for him or not is decided quickly when I realize there is no way in hell I’m getting up and walking again.

I fucking hate Ymir.

Believe me when I say I _throw_ myself down on the grass, sitting hunched over like a loser in the shade cast by the rock formation. Whatever, I’ll wait ten minutes or something and if Marco’s not done by then I’ll whistle. Or maybe I’ll make it a half an hour. I’m so sweaty right now. I want a fucking bath. 

I eventually stretch my legs out, leaning back on my hands, trying to air myself out like a sweaty dishtowel. The breeze plays with my hair and clothes, rippling a pattern across my chest and knees. Here in the shadow of the rock it’s not too overbearing; actually, it’s chilling my sweaty ass and making me shiver a bit, but I’m afraid I’ll start rolling if I move somewhere else, so here I stay.

From here I can see the distant smudge that is Trost. Can’t believe I walked all the way over here from that little break in the canopy. Ridiculous. There’s my exercise for the year. Except, no, wait, it’s not, because fucking Ymir is going to be a fucking asshole and make me-

No. Grow up, Kirschtein. It’ll be worth it. Think of the rippling muscles you’ll obtain. The flow of game. The MP. The life of luxury.

Oh, who am I kidding. That’s one hell of a slippery slope, there, Kirschtein. Take it one step at a time. First learn. Learn and the rest might come, if you work hard. You’re a lazy fuck, but you’ve got to step up for once.

I lean back and lie down in the yellowing grass, picking a spot for my head to lay where the proportion of vegetation to dirt is such that I won’t need a vicious scrubbing later. The grass is short and sparse, scratchy against my exposed skin, and I wriggle a bit to get comfortable. The sky is cloudless in that blank way cold days are. I sigh heavily, my ribs shaky, lolling my head to the side and watching the grass bob and ripple down the slope from the wind. My skin has dried, the sweat disappeared. Oh great. Now I’m doing that thing where I’m getting so comfortable that getting up is entirely out of the question. I flop my arms down in the grass on either sides of my chest and roll my head pointing skyward again, blinking slowly. I tear out little pieces of grass with my hands, idle and lethargic. Who knew walking took this much out of you. My hands rove a bit to the sides once I’ve torn up all the long grass in range. If I could reach a bit more I could actually reach that tree root and pick at it too-

That is not a tree root.

I nearly have a heart attack when I look to the side and see thirty feet of slimy tail instead of the empty space that I swear to _god_ was right there before. Marco is lying amidst it all on his stomach, propping himself up with his elbows on a bit of the snake and watching me intently. The second my gaze hits his he looks away. Christ, he’s not even five feet away from me. The end of the snake tail is almost right next to my hand. How and _when_ did he sneak up on me so silently?

At least he’s remembering not to stare. “Hello, Prin- Jean,” he says for the third time today. Before I can ask what it is he almost just called me instead of my name he continues with, “Ymir didn’t tell me you walk me down, too.”

“Yeah,” I grunt, “she didn’t tell me either. Prick.”

His strange caramel eyes aren’t focused on me, but his brow wrinkles with displeasure at the word, and I decide to keep quiet after that. No need to completely make my morning by coaxing out mister berserk snake Marco.

I don’t make the first move to rise and begin the descent, and neither does he, and I’m grateful. The great shining curves of the tail are completely still, and so is Marco himself, gazing down the mountain and looking calm. With neither of us moving after a minute or so I let myself relax again, looking drowsily back up at the sky and blinking slowly. 

The tail begins to move and I suppress a groan, thinking it’s time for the migration. I watch out of the corner of my eye as Marco shifts, slowly straightening up from his stooped over position. I turn my head and catch him looking at me, and his gaze darts away hurriedly. But when I turn my head back I can see out of the corner of my eye that he keeps glancing at me. Sketchy as fuck, as usual. Slowly he reclines backward, the whole collection of scaly tail sliding and writhing to accommodate Marco’s movement, until he’s lying on his back like I am. I see him fidget a little before growing still.

Great. Happy? Now we’re both lying down. Couple of jackasses lying side by side on a mountain slope. 

He keeps glancing at me.

Is he copying me?

I slowly move to pillow my left hand upon my stomach, making it comfortable, and wait. Not two seconds later Marco casually mimics the movement.

Oh yeah. He’s been copying me.

I almost feel amused. 

“You smell like something,” Marco pipes up thoughtfully. I loll my head to the side to squint at him. “Something I recognize but cannot place.”

“Probably sweat,” I grunt. 

He slowly rolls his head back and forth, staring up at the clouds. “No, it’s . . .” He points the tip of his tongue toward the roof of his mouth, and the flesh under the skin of his throat and neck undulates; I already know the pinkish snake tongue is coming before it even materializes, sticking out of his mouth a good _foot_ and flicking the end limply before it collapses down into his jaws again. Fucking _weird._ Where does it all go? “Like an animal. Something sweaty and musky. And female.”

“The only sweaty musky female animal I’ve interacted with is my brother’s dog. Might be her.”

He looks at me in surprise, dark eyes wide. “You have a brother?”

“Yup.”

“That’s wonderful! Do you have more? Do you have a sister?”

I don’t share his enthusiasm. “Nope, just him.”

“Is he older or younger?”

“Older.”

“What’s he like? Is he nice? Is he nice to you? Do you get along? I know Ymir says sometimes siblings hate each other and sometimes they don’t care about each other and I can’t really fathom that - probably because I adore Ymir and she adores me - but I hope you don’t have that kind of thing because it makes me sad to hear and you don’t deserve it and if you _do_ have that kind of relationship I think you should talk about it with him.”

He didn’t even draw breath throughout that whole thing. I blink exactly three times up at the sky, face blank. “Has anyone ever told you you talk a lot?”

“No, because no one is here but you and Ymir,” he replies. 

“Well you do. And it’s a bit much.”

“I just want to convey everything I’m thinking.”

“And you do it too much.”

“But- oh . . . okay.” A pause. “People do that in books.”

“In what?”

“In books. In books people say long paragraphs.”

I shift my head a bit to get more comfortable. There’s a pebble or something digging into my scalp. “They don’t in real life. You’ve gotta give your conversational partner some time to respond or something. Besides, where you gonna read a book in the damn woods? Last time you read a book was when you were seven or something.”

“No I didn’t, I read one last night. You don’t make a good conversational partner. Everything you say is short and angry and rude. Except the snakebutt thing, that was kind of funny-“

 _“Back_ to the original thing,” I interrupt, swinging up my hands to cut him off before letting them fall back to their former positions. “Thomas and I sort of get along when he’s not being pissy. We share a room, so we get pretty tired of each other.”

“I wish I shared a room with Ymir again,” he sighs. “Actually, I think we shared a bed. When I wasn’t like this. I’d never get tired of her.”

“Shared a bed? You guys poor?”

He doesn’t respond. I glance to the side again and see him squinting contemplatively up at the sky, like he’s trying to remember. While he goes and does that my eyes slide unbidden down to his waist, then down to the tail his legs turned into. The dark scales are so neatly and snugly and methodically fitted together it’s ridiculous, slightly overlapping and crudely ovular in shape. It looks designed. The trunk is milky belly-up for the first few feet before it rotates right side up for the rest of the length, curled in a long, loose, lazy wave down the slope a ways. If it started to slide, would Marco be pulled down too? Or would he be strong enough to lug that monstrosity back up?

There’s something going on with the scales at the spot where his thighs would be possessed he legs. There are several thin, winding streaks through the sides where scales are arranged irregularly or just not there, exposing thin swaths of black, leathery skin. The fuck are those? Are those stretch marks? Do snakes even get stretch marks? Why are they there and nowhere else?

“I’m not sure if we were,” Marco says eventually, startling me out of my creeping. “I don’t remember what other houses look like. Or if they even look different at all. Do all houses look the same?”

“No.”

“Oh, it would make more sense if they did, so then the people who make houses can just build the same kind over and over again. That might get boring, though. Ours only had one room in the whole house. I remember papers everywhere, all over the floor and beds and shelves. Probably from my mother, because she was a scholar. She was always sitting at her desk against the wall researching something. And only two beds. One for our parents and one for us. Does that make us poor?”

“Well,” I grunt, wiggling a bit to get into a more comfortable position, “it sounds sloppy, and you shared a bed, so yeah, you sound pretty poor.”

“Are you poor?”

“Uh . . .” - wow, rude - “We’ve got four rooms in the house. Five if you count the sitting room and kitchen separate. My mom and brother and I have got a pretty steady income. So nah, we’re not. Doin’ pretty good.”

“What’s an income?”

“It’s, uh, money you get for having a job.”

“For _having_ a job, or for working in a job?”

“. . . Working in a job.”

“You smell like something else too,” Marco says right away, apparently steering us in a completely different direction, “and it baffles me. Like something fresssh, aaand . . . kind of sour? I think?”

I raise my hands for a second before letting them drop back to my stomach with a _clap,_ not particularly in the mood for a guessing game. “You got me.” _You are so ridiculous, o fearsome naga,_ I want to add, but I don’t want to waste energy explaining exactly how ridiculous I find him, because doubtless he’ll ask.

“I got you what?”

“No- never mind.”

“All right,” he surrenders, and we lapse into silence yet again. Until, of course, I decide to break it again. But on my terms, see, not to feed his insatiable need to monologue. I’m just curious. 

“What’s with the, uh . . . the whole warming-up thing?” I ask. 

“What’s with it?” Marco parrots back to me.

“Yeah, like . . . why do you do it?”

“Most reptiles exhibit some form of cold-bloodedness so that they have limited physiological means of keeping the body temperature constant and often rely on external sources of heat.”

“. . . What.”

“Most reptiles exhibit some form of cold-bloodedness so that they have limited physiological means of keeping the body temperature constant and often rely on external sources of heat.”

Just what the _fuck._ “I didn’t mean repeat it, I mean explain what the fuck you just said.”

“. . . Oh.” Marco glances at me sheepishly, giving me a glimpse of those dark eyes (are they chocolate, caramel, or honey? I can’t decide; they keep changing with the lighting), as though realizing that he just sounded like the living embodiment of some talking tome. “Reptiles can’t make their own heat in their bodies. So they get it from the environment.”

I squint upwards. “Like the sun?”

“Yes. That’s the main one. Warm rocks are nice too. And warm water. People are just warm all the time, but reptiles and other things need to absorb it from somewhere.”

I get the vague image of a lizard sucking the sunlight out of the air like some nightmarish shiny ghoul. “And . . . you do that?”

The last five feet or so of the snake tail curve limply skyward before flopping back down to the ground to lie still. “Yes. I can’t get warm anymore by myself.”

Freaky. Freaky as fuck. But I guess that means he’s not dead. Good. Good on him.

“I felt you touch me before,” Marco says. “Why did you do that?”

He must be referring to when I felt his chilly skin when he was moping facedown in the dirt. “I dunno,” I say, shrugging nonchalantly. “Was curious about the coldness thing.” I wonder if he’ll get mad that I touched him without consent or anything (or even touched the slimy bastard at all). I mean, he _did_ tell me to stop. Fuck, now I feel bad.

“I’m not cold anymore,” Marco tells me, gazing over at me. “I’m warmer than you are now.”

“Good to know.”

“Here, I’ll show you,” he says definitively, and there’s a great movement; Marco presses his elbows into the ground to brace himself in the same place as the entirety of the thick tail rolls up to the side, toward me; it sweeps smoothly over the grass in a loose arc under my feet and curls around me, the last ten feet or so practically flush against me, a cage of wet, scaled flesh originating at Marco and penning me with him. 

I don’t know what the purpose of this was but I see movement and I move; snake tail is suddenly shoved up near my side a _nd it’s gonna touch me it’s gonna fucking touch me-_

I scramble up the slope so fast on my elbows and feet, scooting away from that thing, feet kicking clumsily and fingers scrabbling in the grass. “Don’t do that,” I blurt out, syllables harsh from my tongue, warily eyeing the tail loitering in the spot I’d just previously occupied a second ago.

Marco has risen to an upright position, head tilted like a dog’s, staring at me. He doesn’t blink. His blown-large eyes bore holes into me.

“I was just going to show you,” he says blankly, as if emotion has been robbed of him, not by devastation or guilt, but as if he is thinking very hard. “Just to touch, because I was proving that I was telling the truth, that I’m warm and not cold.”

“Well I don’t want to be shown,” I say forcefully. I am not touching that. Bad enough all it takes is to get near me before I want to jump and run and take a bath to clean the memory of it right off me. I don’t care if Ymir tells me to or _Marco_ tells me to or if it’s the last thing keeping me tethered to the earth; I will not touch that thing.

“All right,” Marco says slowly, and the tail recedes, beginning to gather underneath his body in a loose circle, alive all on its own. “Stop being afraid, Jean. I don’t want to hurt you.”

 _But what about that thing?_ I want to ask. What about that glutinous, dank, constricting slab of twitchy muscle and hardened skin? You think I want to go near that? You think people are afraid of snakes for nothing? 

Stop being afraid. Disconnect from that thing and I’ll stop being afraid.

“We’re going back down to Ymir now,” Marco says smoothly, his gaze unwavering from mine. 

“Right. Good.”

“Right. Good,” Marco parrots, in the exact same tone, and I want to snap at him to stop being so damn unnatural, as if it’s even fucking possible for him. He turns, exposing his ridged spine; from this angle, with his face and chest obscured and vertebrae sticking out and melding into those dark chunks of slimy flesh, he looks particularly subhuman. 

The walk down is a quiet one.

v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v

Our return is not. Ymir has taken up her knitting again in our absence, and only looks up when Marco trots up to her on all fours (all two plus a snake stomach?) and flops across her lap like a dog looking for attention. If they want me to consider him much more complex than a talking animal they’re making it pretty damn difficult. 

“And how’re you, Jimbles?” Ymir drawls, lolling her head over her shoulder to regard me, one hand atop Marco’s head and stroking his hair. “Huffing and puffing? Moaning and groaning?”

My breathing calmed in the awkward trek through the brush back to her, so she’s not in a position to make fun of me for it. “No, actually,” I grouse. “I feel damn _perky.”_

“Oh, good! Then you’re gonna like what we’re doing next.” She stands, hands planted on the small of her back, bending backwards to stretch her spine with an obnoxious groan like she’s been sitting there for ages. I didn’t take that long, you old hag. Marco crawls like an animal at her feet, the tail curled around her. “Marco’s gonna like it too. So’m I.”

Oh, I can tell I fucking won’t. “What are we doing,” I sigh.

Ymir doesn’t answer, but swaggers up to me, face smug and smirking and all kinds of intolerable. Marco rears up behind her, watching her with a questioning look on his face. Well. Looks like I’m not the only one who’s fucking clueless, though solidarity with a guy attached to a squirmy slimy tail isn’t too appealing.

I don’t back up or flinch or anything when Ymir leans forward in my face, squinting her mud-colored eyes with the force of a most _evil_ grin. I do my best to keep her gaze as she tilts her head, reaching up to place two fingers on my chest and push me lightly.

“Tag,” she says. “You’re it.”

“Wait what? Wait- no.” Ymir trots backwards, arms raised to her ribs and sticking out her tongue. “No, wait- no. No, there is no way I am- no.”

Marco’s eyes are wide and locked on me. “He knows how to play tag?” he whispers excitedly to Ymir. “We’re playing tag?”

“No we’re not! We are not _playing tag,_ for god’s sake, we’re supposed to be doing that- that, uh, knapping shit-“

 _“Everyone_ knows how to play tag, baby,” Ymir says darkly, her teeth bared in a giddy rictus. She leans forward, hands on her knees. “Jean here is no exception.”

I have not moved. I refuse to move. “I thought we were _training?”_

“This is training. You’re weak as shit. You piss and moan about everything I ask you to do, so why not inject a little bit of fun into our day? Have some proper shenanigans.” 

“Because you asked me to climb a _fucking mountain!”_ I protest indignantly, shaking my spread hands out for emphasis. “Which I did twice just now, up and down, so I am pretty fucking _tired-“_

“Oh my god, that’s not even a mountain, it’s a hill-“

“Idon’tfuckingcarewearenotplayingtag.” 

“Please?” Marco pipes up. “You get to chase us.”

Ymir slings her arm around her brother’s shoulders and gestures to him, her face screwed up in fake dismay. “Aww, Jean, look at this face,” she whimpers pathetically. Marco makes a pouty face. “This face. You don’t want to disappoint this cute face, do you?”

Yes I do want to disappoint that face. As if the thought of hurting Marco’s feelings can entice me; the withering embarrassment at the thought of watching those idiots disappear into the woods as I flail my feet and attempt to catch up with them takes precedent, I think. I don’t run. I really don’t. I walk everywhere; there’s no need to go any faster, and when I do my ankles start hurting like I pulled something, so really I’m just looking out for myself, right? I think the last time I really ran - not including that piss-pants oh-my-god-I’m-gonna-legitimately-die berserk Marco happening that occurred, like, barely over a month ago - was when I played around with Connie and Sasha a couple years back.

“I don’t want to chase you guys. I don’t even want to be unnecessarily _near_ you guys. Can we just do what we did last week? Please?”

“All right, fuckface, if you don’t start running I’m declaring my _self_ it,” Ymir says, releasing Marco to advance on me, “and going after you like I’m on fire and you’re the last shitty puddle for miles.”

“You’re not gonna roll on me, are you?”

“Start frickin’ running, Jean!”

“All right! For god’s sake!” I whine, surrendering. If I can get those two idiots focused on each other instead of me I can find somewhere to hide. Wouldn’t it be funny if I just ran home. Hah. Yeah, it would be. Bye, fuckers. “Can someone else be it first?”

Ymir sighs heavily. “I suppose I will, because I’m so merciful. Marco, tell me I’m merciful.”

“You’re very merciful, Miri.”

“Thank you. All right! Boundaries!” She claps her hands and rubs them together, looking around. “Remember the ones we used to have? Uh . . . there was that copse with the branch that was like a bench, and . . .”

“That way,” Marco pipes up, pointing northeast, and then due south, “and that way was the tree with four heads, and there was where the second hill started, and _that_ way was the pine barrens. I remember.”

I don’t see any of these things as I slowly rotate, looking around at the forest. It is so damn easy to get lost. Every stretch of it looks the same. Trees, brush, leaves, more trees. How these loons get around is beyond my understanding.

And it looks like I’m going after Ymir, fast as she may be; I’m not touching Marco. I try to think of it and find myself incapable. To even get to skin I’d have to step over all that- no. No. Unthinkable. It’s not happening.

“The last time we played tag,” comes Marco’s voice right behind me, and I jump, whirling around, “was when I was ten.” While I was looking around he approached me; Ymir is wandering around the edge of the clearing, apparently attempting to look for one of the landmarks Marco had listed off before. “It was boring because it was only two people and tag is fun with three or more. So this will be exciting!” 

“Yeah yeah, sure will,” I mutter, scooting away a few steps. Exciting, my delicious equine ass. “What’s base?”

Marco looks to the side blankly, then back to me. “Are you asking me what a base is?”

“No, I mean, what’s the base for tag. The game.”

“The . . . ground, Jean. It’s the base of where we’re running.”

“God, you never had a base when you played tag? Christ,” I mutter, wandering in a wide arc around him toward Ymir. “Yo! The hell is base?”

“There is no base, my dear darling!” Ymir hollers right back, apparently satisfied in her establishment of bench-trees and strolling back in our direction. “Base is for whiny bitches.”

“How’re we supposed to play without a base?”

“Like this. GAME ON,” she hollers, and breaks into a run.

I’m not afraid to admit the scream that erupts from me would have sounded more appropriate when uttered by someone half my age. Further plummeting my dignity is by contrast the deep, giddy laugh Marco emits as he whirls and nearly whips me in the face with his tail to get on his hands and bound into the trees.

I stare at Ymir charging at me like a bull for a terrifying moment before I swear I turn and run faster than I did when Marco went berserk on me. I get a full four seconds of aching ankles and pounding feet on uneven ground and the thud of pursuing footsteps closing in before she grabs a fistful of the back of my shirt, gives me a shove, proclaims, “JEAN’S IT,” and takes off.

Son of a bitch.

It does not go well. If you know me at all you’d know it wouldn’t go well. I spend the majority of the game it- scratch that, I spend the _entire game_ it, and I lose track of how long we play. And I use the term “play” subjectively, because Ymir seems to be having a grand old time running circles around me as I flail my arms around in the hopes of brushing her shoulder or shirt or _something._ Everything from our levels of athletic proficiency to the damn setting is biased toward them; they’re clearly well-versed in the environment while I trip every other step. Marco kind of fucks off for a bit, which I’m grateful for, ‘cause then I don’t have to touch him. But he looks awfully distressed whenever I catch a glimpse of him standing there to the side as I fruitlessly tear off after Ymir. I don’t think this was how he imagined this to go down at all.

I end the game on my own terms when I wobble to the log, fall face-first down upon it, and refuse to move until Ymir concedes defeat. She allows me five minutes to recuperate from my ordeal before hauling me to my feet, making me do the dreaded stance, then planting a boot on my ass and ordering me to go knap some more.

v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v

Sacrificing my Wednesdays of comfort, albeit with its fair share of boredom, to spend time with someone who continues to insult me and another who continues to freak me out really sounds like it should deter me, but it doesn’t. I stick to it. I do, if only to break the monotony. And I’ll admit the invisible weight of keeping the overwhelming secret that is Marco Bodt is a bit of a rush.

Ymir’s one for routine, it seems, and she doesn’t forget about making me walk Marco up the mountain twice in one single day. I’m required to escort him up, go back down the slope to check in on her knitting or napping or whatever the hell she does while I’m sweating my pasty ass off, and then go back up to walk Marco back down. The sun is unrelenting, as is the wind; my body aches daily from the climb, and I find myself taking constant breaks. I know every bend and twist to that trail now, every section where I need to watch my step, every change in steepness and shallowness. I think about lying and fucking off somewhere instead of doing any actual hiking, but Marco has no qualms about reporting my inattentiveness to Ymir, the fucking tattletale. I don’t think he even knows what that is.

And of course there’s the fact that this forces me to spend time alone around Marco, with no Ymir around to translate his oddities and my norms. Surprisingly, after that first day, he doesn’t really engage me in conversation in any medium. Going up to his basking place he either tiredly trudges ahead of me, where we are separated by thirty feet of ugh, or trails behind me, and never speaks up anymore. When around Ymir he places himself at her side and speaks only to her. I mean, I guess since I’m just “not a very good conversational partner” - prick - he wants to keep silent. But he continues to do that fucking _stare._ The one where he completely pretends he was not staring but he totally was. 

Also unfortunately for me, tag becomes a weekly norm. And by tag I mean a solid thirty minutes of me being it the entire time, with random little breaks interspersed where I miraculously get someone. Someone meaning Marco. Ymir goes after whoever’s closest, and when she’s charging Marco he’s eerily lightning-quick to writhe his way out of her grasp, but for some reason he gets unnaturally winded whenever I’m it and flounders his way away at a speed half of what it should be. More than slow enough for me to march right up to him, poke his shoulder or something, and steer clear as he regains his breath in an instant to hunt down Ymir.

“Wait wait, stop,” I plead one day, wheezing, waving my arms weakly at the approaching Ymir. “Give me a rest.”

“Will a bobcat give you a rest when you inevitably miss it and it stampedes after your sorry ass?” Ymir fires back at me. 

“You’re more like a mountain lion than a bobcat,” I pant, stumbling away from her, bent over like an old man. “Or like a wolf or something, I don’t know; just let me sit down or something-“

Ymir grips the collar of my shirt and hauls me upright, giving me a look. “I know, I know, you don’t have to start,” I groan. “I’m weak, I’m gross, I don’t do my squats in the morning and wrestle a few dragons like you do-“

“Nagas, actually,” Ymir says with amusement, releasing me. 

“What’re you saying about me?” Marco calls over from his restless position across the clearing from us.

“That you’re the cutest thing alive, darling!” Trust me, you’re not. “Jean’s it, so start running.”

You’d think we do more actual, you know, _archery_ stuff, but that doesn’t seem to be the case. Bullshit exercises are the case. Last time I checked, you pull a string with your arms, not your fucking legs, but you’d be fooled with all the running I’ve been doing. I’m becoming more and more convinced Ymir is pulling all of this right out of her ass. And she’s even trying to get me to start jogging in my spare time; she tells me she wakes up in the wee hours to run a circuit around Trost before beginning her day properly, just to keep herself in shape, and she’s trying to convince me this is somehow enjoyable. I have enough torment to deal with from her constant griping and criticizing and ordering around; all I ask is she doesn’t intrude on my home life. Jogging is out of the question.

I can probably make a damn arrowhead blindfolded (though I’m becoming pretty bad at independently finding flint, mostly because I’ve begun to mysteriously find neatly stacked pyramids of high-quality flint set by the edge of the brook Ymir sends me to for materials); I no longer need correction when I practice my stance. On the fourth week - with winter creeping closer every day as the leaves change color at an exponential pace - Ymir, bundled up like I am in thick furs to stave off the windy chill, with Marco draped across her lap for warmth, teaches me the long process of making an entire arrow, from picking the proper shaft to making glue from flour and water to tie on the arrowhead to finding the best feathers for the end. When Ymir is impressed I am pleased to find she doesn’t hide it; I actually momentarily forgive her for her previous transgressions when she thumps me on the back and praises my first successful arrow, because god damn, this is a hot-ass arrow! All straight and everything. It looks like my meticulous dad made it.

Of course, my forgiveness is redacted when Ymir then whacks my ass and tells me to shoot again using my pristine new arrow, because while it’s not quite as humiliating as the first time due to my knowledge of the correct stance, she doesn’t make an effort to stop laughing for a very long time.

The woods are a bitch. There’s nowhere to comfortably rest except the convenient log, everything is dirty and oozing and wet, and flies are incessant in their buzzing around my head. I go home every day with muddy boots and dirt streaked on my skin. Burdock burs are a common sight clinging to my clothing. I find at least three ticks somewhere on me every night in the bath. The soreness I wake up with on Thursday, holy shit. I am way out of shape.

I stick to it.

v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v

The day’s been slow, it’s annoyingly chilly, we found out mice got into a good portion of our grain, and Reiner’s threatened to kick me out if I make one more snide comment about his dress. I’m pretty much super done with today and we’re not even halfway through.

Autumn creeps across the mountains like a disease, touching down in the forest with orange fingers and spreading from tree to tree. The mountains are discolored and blotchy with what looks like mold spreading across the surface of a piece of bread. Just a visual reputation of the onslaught of winter. I hope it doesn’t get too bad this year; some family friends of my dad died from the chill and he still hasn’t really gotten over it yet.

Someone’s speaking obnoxiously loud at the counter, and I recognize that nasally, jumpy voice. Hanji Zoe’s talking up a storm, probably making Levi’s ear fall off again. They’ve been coming by an awful lot lately.

I want to stay in the back, but Reiner’s been distracted yet again by the towering apple of his eye and leaves me to tend to our income (hey hey, the word Marco didn’t know). “How can I help you?” I ask politely.

“The usual,” Levi grunts listlessly, as Hanji refuses to stop to draw breath talking about something involving the scales on a hummingbird feather. I wonder if they look anything like Marco’s. Scales all look the same, right? Right.

While I mope about getting that ready, Hanji’s chattering drifts through the bakery door.

“-little interlocking plates to form the whole structure, like- like bubbles! And oh, I don’t know who found this out or how or why or when but I’d love to shake their hand until it falls off. I made a feeder, Levi, did you see it? The little sponge with the flower heads sticking out? Quite a genius design, if I say so myself. I _drenched_ it in water I mixed with honey and sugar cane- there’s an entire hummingbird community buzzing around my window all hours of the day!”

“Just like the buzz I hear right now,” I hear Levi sigh, and snort. I bring out their orders and set them down before the two now-regulars; for some reason they actually like this shit Reiner designed, and have been coming by at least once a week, usually more. I swipe the coins slid forward across the counter by Levi’s hand in return.

“I named them all! Clyde, Omar, Felicity, Theresa, Reggie, Cosette, Bob, and Maximilian. Oh, and little Phoebe. You can tell the difference from the proportion of red on the throat, you know. You should get a feeder. I should make you one. I’m going to make you one. What color do you want the sponfe? Owenph, gleeh, uh hoo?” for she’s continued her incessant monologuing as she stuffs food in her mouth. Amazing. I make a mental note to clean the crumbs spraying out off the counter later as I retreat back inside the shop, thinking I’ll go and check the stock or something. See if those damn little bastard mice are back.

Hanji has apparently swallowed, because she says quite clearly, “And once I get my hands on a feather, I’ll be that much closer to figuring out what they look like up close! Or how to even look at one that close, for that matter.”

Did I just hear a squeak? I just heard a squeak. Watch out, fucker, Jean’s on the prowl. I stoop down to my hands and knees, peeking under the table for the culprit. The more grain and flour we waste the more we have to buy come trader time, and I am not about to spend my spare money on Reiner’s need to name shit after himself.

I lose track of the conversation outside, but when I catch the word “naga” of course I forget everything else and go still, listening. Looks like someone’s back on her favorite topic again. “-how many there exactly are. What if- Levi, listen to me, what if- now hear me out- what if there is an entire _society_ of them? And this one is just an outcast? What do you think of that?”

“I think you need to shut up and eat what I bought for you,” is the grumbled reply, but Hanji plows on.

“With customs of their own and everything. And this one got kicked out because he was too small or a runt- nono, I don’t like my theory anymore. No, this is all hypothetical. I know it. I just thought of a better one. They’re accidents. Ask me how I know.”

“Enlighten me, shitty-glasses.”

Yeah, enlighten us all, shitty-glasses. I scoff and roll my eyes at her theorizing. Remember that tempestuous urge to enlighten _her_ for once? It returns with a hellacious vengeance. How would she react to knowing some crazy person or persons kidnapped a little kid and fused his legs together to make this slimy tail? Probably with fascination, when I think about it. Hanji seems exactly like the type of person to find that intriguing.

“Because I heard they can be _cured.”_

I go awfully still at this, wondering if I just heard her right. And I did, because she continues with, “It’s actually quite well-known. I’ve read about it. Studies about half-humans and their animal parts. The snake attachment is like a parasite, you know? It lives off of the human host. A true agent of Naja, if you will. If you injure the snake, it retreats and shrinks and doesn’t grow back. The more you do it, the less there’s left, until it uncovers the legs again and the naga is human.”

For some reason this comment lacks the fantasy of the previous ones, and I find myself contemplating it. I’m no scientist, but Hanji is. When she’s not being a surgeon, she’s experimenting. She’s been known to go out and collect flora and fauna, not for food or other practical purposes, but to slice ‘em up and see how they tick. I mean, to each their own, and I’m absolutely sure there’s scientific benefit in that, but what the fuck, Hanji.

I wonder if Ymir knows that, and resolve to tell her the next time I see her. Shit, maybe she’d want to see if it worked. I mean, if she already knew, she’d jump all over the opportunity to cure her little Marco. It’s got to be a hassle to maintain this tenuous lie that Marco’s a bloodthirsty monster and gave her her scars. 

She doesn’t react with the same innocent curiosity I do the next time I see her, on Wednesday on the way north through the woods. She stops short in her tracks, grabs my shoulder, and says tensely, “Did you tell Marco?”

I stall, disarmed by her reaction, discarding the notion that she didn’t know this tidbit of information; there’s no way she’d react with such immediacy if she hadn’t known. “What? No, I only heard it, like, two days ago. Three days ago.”

She relaxes only the smallest amount. “Where did you hear it?”

“What, that Marco can get cured? I dunno, I overheard it.”

Ymir releases me. “Don’t mention it to Marco.”

“What? Why?”

“Just pretend you never heard it,” she mutters. “It’s not true. Don’t say a thing to him. It’s just a stupid myth.” 

She begins to walk again, staring at the forest floor, with such force and purpose that I have to jog to catch up to her. “Wait, how do you know? Isn’t it worth checking out?”

“That,” Ymir replies, not looking at me, “is not an old rumor. People have been spreading that around since they knew what a naga was. It’s just a myth. He can’t be cured. Forget about it.”

I keep pace with her, half-turned to her, knowing there’s got to be more to that and silently prompting her to spill. She eventually sighs and rolls her eyes. “I heard it once,” she quietly admits. “I don’t remember how old we were. I heard it, and I made the mistake of mentioning it in passing to Marco.” She pauses again. “After I left for the day he tried the theory out on himself.”

It takes a moment for me to get it, and when I do my eyes widen. “Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘oh.’ Oh wait, now I remember. He was nine. Because his birthday was like a month later.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.” Ymir’s mouth scrunches up, and she shakes her head. “He’s not-“ She raises a fist to shoulder level. “- _able_ to be cured. The snake half is his-“ She releases her fist, jutting her hand forward. “- _body._ It’s just how he _is_ now. You can’t magically make the body into legs again by _hurting_ him. He feels it. It’s _his_ body, natural or not.”

I try to imagine exactly how Marco decided to try this theory out on himself and remember the marks on the tail I noticed before, the ones that look like black, scaleless stretch marks. Well now I know what they are. I wince at the mental image.

“Came back and he tried to hide it,” Ymir mutters, almost low enough that I can’t hear, “but the- he got an infection. Couldn’t exactly hide that.”

Shit, I’m not sure how to react to this. Poor Marco, I guess. I wouldn’t want to be what he is either. “Yeah.”

“So don’t fucking mention it to him,” Ymir orders sourly. “Forget you ever heard that shit. It makes the rounds every once in a while when people pretend they saw the naga in the woods. Ignore it. He doesn’t need to hear it.”

“He has a lot of stuff.”

“A lot of what?”

I wave my hand. “You know . . . stuff. Uh, like, guidelines?”

“Rules?”

“Yeah, rules. He has a lot of rules and shit. Don’t make him go berserk, don’t be rude, don’t mention that shit just now . . .”

Ymir looks at me with condescending concern. “If you think not being rude to someone has to be stressed to you before you interact with them-“

“Nonono, I was just listing shit! But yeah. He has a lot of stuff you can and can’t do, my point is.”

Ymir and I take big steps over a termite-riddled tree trunk lying across our path as she says, “Well, how much have you been talking to him? There’s other shit you can’t say to him, you know.”

“W- there’s _more?”_ I ask disbelievingly. “Christ!”

“Yes, there is,” Ymir growls, “which is why I’m concerned about how much you’ve been talking to him in case you bring up something taboo. He tells me he doesn’t talk to you much. That true?”

“Not really. Wait, I mean, yes, true. He doesn’t talk to me.”

“Good. But just in case, you need to hear the full list of things you cannot say to him or show him or even acknowledge as existing. Triggers. Bad things happen if you ignore what I am about to tell you.”

“One, don’t be fucking rude?”

She scoffs. “That shouldn’t have to be said, jackass.”

The list is long.

Human blood. Snakes. Especially dead snakes. Organs. Cutting things open. Red clothing. Hoods. Needles. Knives. Pinning him in any way, especially at his wrists. Stitching on clothing or dolls. Injury at the hips or thighs. Injury to the eyes and mouth. Charcoal. Meat that’s too burned when cooked. Ribcages. Spinal cords. Heartbeats. Long thin things, like rope or vines, especially when coiled up. Beheading (?). Any aspect or name for royalty, for some reason. Sawing through logs. Don’t touch his waist. Don’t comment on his eyes. Don’t make fun of him for moving or walking and lying down weirdly. Sometimes he doesn’t want to be touched. Sometimes he doesn’t want to be spoken to. Sometimes he needs to be touched or spoken to or bad things happen.

“Now listen,” Ymir says to me seriously, “some of this stuff will just depress him. Some will make him a little jittery. But others will send him into panic attacks. He’ll pass out. Worst case scenario, you will drive him berserk, and he won’t be able to stop himself from killing you. Optimally I want my brother to be happy all day every day, therefore you’re not allowed to instigate _any_ of that. Not even the tiniest bit.”

I ask weakly, “How does he ever go outside?”

“From what I can discern, it sounds like all that bullshit is from memories of however he was made,” Ymir continues. “Memories of what happened and such. I didn’t find this all out by asking him, because he refuses to talk about it. He _can’t_ talk about it. He gets too stressed out; I just watch him and notice what makes him uncomfortable. I don’t know what the hell happened and I don’t know why, but I do know that Marco doesn’t need to be reminded of it anymore. Don’t bring this up, or I’ll behead you.”

“That’s on the list.”

“Good! You’re learning.”

I scoff, waving a hand at her. “You know what? You don’t even have to worry. We don’t really talk to each other at all anyway. Me and your brother, I mean.”

Ymir turns her head to me, frowning. “Yeah. Why’s that?”

I shrug, not expecting to analyze exactly why this is. “I don’t know. He just doesn’t talk to me, so I don’t talk to him. He hasn’t talked to me for a while now.”

Ymir nods. “Yeah, Marco told me that too. He’s been avoiding you because he’s scared of pissing you off. He thinks he did something wrong at some point. Made you uncomfortable or something.”

I remember the dread weight against the side of my foot from when the tail had touched me, and I grimace and shrug. “I don’t know. Sort of.”

“Sort of?” When I don’t reply she elbows me. “I can’t help you with shit if I don’t know what’s fucking you up.”

“There’s nothing that needs help,” I reply, scooting away from her a bit. “We just don’t talk. It’s not really necessary.”

“What made you uncomfortable?”

I groan, delaying my answer by stepping around a tree. My shoes sink slightly into the mossy earth. “Everything, kind of. The tail thing, and the way he speaks. It’s weird, you know? He’s older than me, but he acts like a little kid. Sounds like one too. It just gets exhausting listening to him and explaining shit to him that I feel like someone his age should already know. He’s got the attention span of a _gnat,_ and he stares at me all the damn time, and the tail is just really, really weird.” I fall silent again before tacking onto the end for emphasis, “Like, really weird.”

I wonder momentarily if Ymir will get pissed off at me, but instead she looks contemplative, and nods. “It’s kind of my fault.”

“Huh?”

“A little while ago, uh,” she says thoughtfully, looking skyward a bit to remember, “there was maybe a two-month period where I couldn’t get out to see him much. Middle of summer. I could only get two or three days free to come visit him and that was it. So, eh . . . he’s a bit off because of that.”

I scrunch my eyebrows together, not comprehending. “A little off of what?”

Ymir gestures widely to the trees surrounding us. “Look around you, Jimbles. There’s no one out here except me, Marco, and now you. You learned everything, about walking and talking and language and all that, from people around you. For the past eight years Marco has only had me, and only sparingly at that. So you can understand why the way he acts is a little wonky, I hope.”

“Sort of . . .”

“No one’s been around to teach him how to act properly. I mean, I correct him sometimes, but otherwise no one’s around to instruct him. Take the handshake thing, for example. No one’s walking around shaking his hand, so how the hell is he gonna know what to do when you offer? How does he know when it’s acceptable to stop shaking someone’s hand?”

“Uh, you know, you can let him know by now he only does it once.”

“Yeah, but it’s funny watching him do it. Listen, he may act like a little kid, and he might sound like a little kid, but he is _not_ a child. He’s more intelligent than you and me combined, and much more mature; he just has trouble _conveying_ it. Stuff that makes sense to him will not to you. Give him time. With two people to copy now he’ll start acting more normal, more like himself. When he’s alone for a while his social skills deteriorate. They’ll get back to what they were in time. He’ll never be perfect, like, you can tell he’s been isolated for a while, but right now he’s, you know, really awkward. Especially around you, now. He doesn’t know how to act around you.”

I listen in silence, turning over in my head what she’s saying. “I’m not sure how to act around him either.”

“Treat him like a human being. That’s a start.”

 _But he’s not,_ I bite back, and feel a little guilty. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Remember what I told you,” Ymir says sternly. “I don’t want to see a single shade of glum on my baby’s face, and if I do I’ll know who’s responsible.”

“I won’t glum up your baby. Chill,” I grumble. With luck, he’ll keep thinking he did something wrong (he kind of did) and avoid me as much as he has (which is a lot).

I glance at Ymir. She looks sobered. “Hey, so . . . in light of this depressing and frankly quite oppressive and- and _tragic_ topic, why don’t we, y’know, unwind for today? Take a nice break, relax for a while-“

“We’re still playing tag.”

“Fuck!”

v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v

As annoying as it is to attempt to catch up to Ymir and Marco’s exclusive way of speaking to each other, I’m too proud to ask them to clarify their mutual understandings, and so I find out exactly what the boundaries of tag are through observation. My favorite hangout spot becomes due west, where I haul ass the second I’m not it, because the boundary there is the upward curve of the second of two hills, and between them snakes a ravine where it’s convenient to stake out until Ymir grows bored of the game. Neither of them seem to have found me there yet.

The second Ymir calls that the game is on, with her as it, I bolt north, intending to curve left and hole myself up in that gorge. Unfortunately for me, Marco chooses to run in the same direction I do, and Ymir charges after us both.

“Oh fuck,” I pant, trying to keep my eyes both on the ground so I don’t trip and ahead of me so I don’t brain myself on a fucking branch. The thunderous crash of Marco’s inconvenient bulk barreling in the same direction somewhere to my left masks wherever Ymir can be; autumn has long since wrapped the valley in its chilly embrace, and the forest is a shaggy, half-shed animal, with leaves in varying stages of crunchy decay carpeting the forest floor. You can’t make a move without giving yourself away.

Through bushes and the thin fingers of fanned-out saplings I race, my feet pounding across leaved dirt and mossy patches in the ground dolloped out over roots like earthen pedestals for trees. In this kind of setting even a squirrel makes a cacophony, and my comparatively much larger body sounds like a discordant orchestral beacon, signaling my location. Hey, Ymir, just follow the sounds of intense foliage-ruffling! You’ll find me quick.

The chill abates as I run, and warmth gathers in my chest, under my arms, and slowly creeps prickling up and down my body to my calves and wrists and temples. My breath puffs out into air on the verge of frosting, and I realize it’s the only thing I hear. I slow, twisting my torso to look around, arms raised to my shoulders. No one in sight. I can hear leaves protesting as something disturbs them in the distance, but everything is disturbing them, so it’s not good enough to indicate whether it’s Ymir or not.

I put my hands on my knees, regaining my breath, feeling my lungs fill with crisp air. My hands remain frigid and white (as always) and the tips of my toes tingle with numbness, even though it’s not that cold. I clench and unclench my fingers, trying to regain some feeling in them, and find the motions awkward and stiff. Just great. I’m gonna have a fun time working meticulously with my hands later when we start tinkering with tools.

I’m about to straighten up and start heading toward my ravine when I hear the hiss of leaves being pressed upon, and the lack of a rhythm should’ve tipped me off that it wasn’t Ymir, but I tense up immediately anyway. I see Marco’s long black hair before he bursts onto the scene, but it still makes me jump; he jolts as well at the sight of me, the tail going rigid and the first third of it suddenly bending in a sharp S completely off the ground. 

Ignore it. Ignore it. “Did you see Ymir?” I demand.

“No. I lost her toward the north,” Marco replies, catching his breath. The tail rests fully once again on the forest floor, its long sides jumping in tandem with Marco’s chest. “Did you see her?”

“Fuck if I know. I just ran.” I knead my feet into a dais of moss, picking at the bark of the tree it resides under awkwardly. 

Marco approaches me, and he approaches me without pause or cease, getting awfully close. I stare at him, uncomprehending and a little panicky. What’s he doing? Why’s he-

He’s not even a couple of feet away from me and his arm reaches forth, aimed for my head; I duck and lean away from him, offering the most scandalized look I can muster and demanding forcefully, “What?”

Marco looks down at me blankly, hand still reaching. “There’s a burr in your hair. I was going to get it out, but you moved away. Now I can’t.”

“Oh.” I press my lips together and still myself. Harmless, right? Nothing doing. “Do not pet my hair.”

“You said I can’t, so I’m not going to,” Marco says quietly, tilting his head and watching with his bizarre eyes whatever his hand is doing over my head. I feel a little tug above my temple and cringe a bit, but then the pressure fades, and Marco withdraws his hand with a very ordinary burr in his hand. He holds it up for my inspection. “See? I wasn’t lying to pet your hair. That would be pointless.”

“Right.” I straighten up again. 

“You’re supposed to thank me. Otherwise it would still be there,” Marco whispers, as though giving me a hint.

“Oh. Uh. Thanks.”

He beams, and I hear the leaves rustle as something stirs them far behind Marco, and I’m willing to bet my shoes it’s the tip of the tail wagging like a dog’s. Great, as long as it’s on the other side of him. His hands are doing that shaking thing too. “You’re welcome! That wasn’t so hard!”

I scoff. “Dude, I already know manners. You didn’t teach me anything.”

“I still prompted you, and you said thank you. Thank you for that thank you. Why didn’t you say it in the first place, then?”

I beat my heel into the moss idly. “I dunno, it, like, wasn’t that crucial a task for you to do for me, so I didn’t think it required a thanking.” 

Look at us, standing here in the woods debating about whether removing a burr from my hair was important enough to warrant a thank you. Marco looks down, contemplating this with a tiny frown. “I think it was that crucial,” he says, “because otherwise it would have stuck there, and might’ve started scratching your head, and maybe irritated you, and you would’ve-“ Here he looks up, and his face uncharacteristically transforms; his eyes flick up and down the height of my body, gaining focus, and his lip curls on the left side, and his head tilts back a bit. “-been even more of a prick than you already are.”

The laugh that erupts out of me startles him. “What?” he demands. “Did I say something funny?”

“No, just- your _face,”_ I croak. “You looked so frickin’ sassy- you looked like Ymir, that’s what.”

“Is that a good thing? That’s good, isn’t it? Ymir’s beautiful.”

“I meant her expression or whatever. Wait, did you just call me a prick?”

“. . . Yes.”

“That’s kinda rude, man.”

“But I called you that because you _have_ been acting like a prick,” Marco says, sounding distressed. “Because you're a little unpleasant? And that’s not polite at all, so I told you that so you’d stop acting like that.”

“If you don’t like how someone is acting you . . . uh, well, I guess you just kind of ignore them. Or leave ‘em alone. You don’t just tell them straight-up that they’re being shitty.”

“But that’s pointless. What if they don’t know they’re acting like a grouch? So you help them remedy their behavior. Is that . . . not how it works. Isn’t it.”

“Not really.”

“Well, fuck,” he says, with such frank, resigned finality that I burst out laughing again. Oh my god, he _cursed._ “I’m not good at this.”

“Good at what?” I ask, wiping my eyes.

“Talking to you.” He slumps, looking glum. “I either frighten you or make you laugh at me. I really do want to have a normal conversation, but I keep messing up. I say too much, or I don’t get what you say, and I just mess it all up.”

I’m glad he acknowledges it, at least. I consider him, and consider what Ymir said to me before, that he’s incapable of being on the same socially interactive level as me. “I was only laughing because it’s weird hearing you say certain things. That’s all. I wasn’t really trying to make fun of you or anything.”

He nods, brightening up a little bit. “But I still did things wrong.”

“I mean, I suppose you did.” I’m losing grasp of the conversation here; analyzing the aspects of everything he said isn’t a mission I’m about to embark upon. “But hey, for what it’s worth, for a guy who’s surrounded by squirrels all the time, you talk pretty good.”

“Pretty well.”

“Pretty well, whatever. See? Ya got me there.”

Marco does that intense-stare thing again, then his eyes crinkle up as his face is split by a wide, toothy grin; he looks so damn happy for me to have said something like that that he seems to have forgotten the no-staring rule. In this instance, you know, I don’t particularly mind. Replace the tail, give him some clothes and a haircut, and I could be speaking to him on a street in Trost. He looks bafflingly human.

He’s so caught up in being frankly a little endearing and I’m so caught up being a little endeared that neither of us hear Ymir until she’s nearly upon us, bellowing a war cry, and she is, bursting through the trees and bearing down upon the two of us. Marco and I move near-simultaneously as we look at her, give two little horrified screams in tandem, and turn to bolt. I race west, and I don’t know which direction Marco goes, but it’s not west.

Ymir happens to follow him, giving me time to slip away until I can’t see or hear the two of them, and I slow to a leisurely trot as I see the ground dipping into the ravine. I hunt around for a shallower route down before slowly descending, leaning steeply against the slope and gripping lacy roots for leverage, my knees bent and toes digging into the surface. If I need to take a rest I do so against one of the trees on the way down, all of which have managed to defy gravity enough to grow in this site somehow. The very bases of their trunks point outward perpendicular to the ground before curving skyward. Don’t tell anyone, but the first time I tried getting down this thing I fell on my fucking face and almost died, like, three times tumbling down this damn slope. 

The bottom may have held a brook at some point, but not anymore. Now it’s just a universal landing site for any trees that have succumbed to gravity and fallen down, creating a natural lattice of mushroom-swollen trunks in the belly of the gorge. They’re fun to walk on, if I’m careful not to fall and break my damn neck.

I wander a little while down the length of the ravine, hopping over or under or across fallen tree-bridges , before hearing the telltale sound of Marco’s length sliding over the ground. I look around and up and down before spotting him a little ways away, gripping roots as he descends into the pit with me. Aww, fuck, my little hideaway’s secrecy’s been compromised. The tail drapes itself over intact trees and dips of level land, curving just under Marco’s body to locate itself somewhere new, followed by the next few feet somewhere else, then the next, like a many-legged creature taking downward steps, until Marco is at the bottom.

Oh crap. If Marco’s here, Ymir is somewhere nearby. I trot toward him, looking around for his sister. “Did you lose her? Is she nearby?”

Marco hunches over where he stands, apparently deeply embroiled in regaining his breath. He waves an arm, too winded to supply me with an answer. “Is she coming?” I whine. I stop before him, appreciating safety in numbers, and look behind me again for Ymir. “I am _not_ gonna be it. Is she nearby, at least? Should we go back up there?”

I turn and behold Marco’s sunny grin, possessing none of the innocence or breathlessness from earlier; instead, his eyes bear sneaky triumph, and my heart sinks.

He pokes me quickly in the chest. “You’re it,” he informs me solemnly, then turns and bolts.

“Wait, what the fuck? Wait,” I demand dumbly, staring after the loopy retreating tail. “You didn’t fucking tell me you were it. You did not tell me you were it!”

Laughter floats back at me, and that is the last straw. “You fucking asshole!” I yell, taking off right after him. “You didn’t tell me you were it! I walked right _up_ to you, dammit!” 

Marco makes a valiant attempt to escape, but he’s held up in his retreat through the gorge by a fallen tree in his way, which he meticulously lifts himself and the long tail over, granting me time to catch up with the devious fucker. I vault over the tree and charge him, refusing to allow him to escape. The cheeky grin on his face never falters as he backs away from me, arms raised as though to defend himself. “Get your ass over here. I’m gonna kill you, you fuckin’- bastard-“

I grab for him and he gambols away, giggling like an idiot. He bobs at the front end of the tail, maneuvering away from my swipes with smooth grace as I grab at him in vain to tag him back, or tackle him, or do something, I don’t know. The tail squirms and hops as he dances just out of my reach; I’m running in circles like an idiot trying to get at him and avoid the damn tail at the same time. I manage to hop over a length of the dark snake and grab his wrist (icily cold, just like my fingers) and his other arm but I don’t let go, about to show this damn naga a thing or two about fooling me. We grapple, shoving against each other and trying not to fall over and trying to make each other fall over; he’s laughing, I’m trying valiantly not to laugh, and it’s pointless, it’s all pointless.

“I give up; I give up, I’m too tired,” he concedes effervescently, lowering himself a bit and ceasing in his shoving, smiling up at me with a flushed face. The tail goes still.

I release his wrists and stumble back a bit. _“You’re_ it.”

“I am,” he agrees, panting; he backs up against a log lying across the leaves, and the tail behind him curls in a circle in anticipation for him to lie stomach-down inside its coils. “I’ll tag you in a moment, but I just need to regain my breath.”

Well, shit, so do I; especially since I realize I just got so close to him, and therefore that tail. I wobble to the log and plop myself stiffly down against it with a grunt. I sit with my knees up and my hands jammed between them in an effort to return color to them, breathing hard after running after and around Marco. 

Marco glances at me quickly, and then away, and sits up; the tail flips over on its spine along most of its length, exposing the long flaky, milky belly, as he leans his back against the log like I am mine, stealing cursory looks at me all the while. The pose looks awkward; he doesn’t exactly have an ass to sit on, so his spine looks curved and slouched uncomfortably sharply, as the spot where his hips would be lies flat upon the ground.

I snort. “You’re copying me, dude.”

He pauses, then says, “I’m embarrassed.”

“That I caught you? You’re not exactly subtle about it.”

“My subtlety skills are rusty, Pr- Jean,” I gripes, leaning forward to wipe something off the snake stomach before settling against the log again.

What did he almost just call me? I’m about to ask before I catch sight of the scars on the snake tail below his waist. I look away.

“I love this time of the year,” Marco sighs. He tilts his head back to gaze up the gorge’s sides, devoting attention to the canopy and sky up above. “The colors are gorgeous, especially from an aerial point of view. Where I bask there’s a shelf that I can get up on and look down at the valley and it’s amazing. All the-“ He raises his hand, fingers outstretched. “-red and greens and golds-“ He slowly waves his hand back and forth, as though touching the very things he describes. “-and the textures. It’s like a giant painting.”

I follow his gaze. I can see what he means, from an objective point of view, and not one that considers as well the implication that this means winter. The canopy is dappled apple-red and burnt pumpkin and creeping purple, with bits of golden yellow teasing the tips of the maples. Oaks are colored faded green, like a dusty portrait, and beech trees have layers of carmine and gold, like someone splashed paint upon them from above. Elms devote themselves to one color at a time, in phases, and so they are monochrome sunshine and cherry and bread crust. Dirt isn’t visible on the forest floor, instead blanketed by a thick carpet of shed multicolored leaves, interspersed with bits of fallen bark. Some trees appear as full of life as ever while others look like a shaggy, forgotten project. 

There’s beauty in it, I can see. “Everything changes. Everything’s reborn next time around,” Marco says quietly beside me. “But before it goes it’s like it wants to impress us. I think it’s spectacular. Don’t you?”

“Yeah,” I reply in solemn acknowledgment. I suppress a shiver. “’S cold, though.”

Marco nods. “I can feel it. I can’t run around that much. I’m too slow by now.”

My gaze flits to the tail lying overturned in snaky bundles and curves connected to his waist. None of it is overlapping itself except for the finger-thin tip near the end, and therefore it takes up an absurd amount of space. 

“You’re staring at me,” Marco observes. “That’s rude.”

“Whoops. I was being a prick again,” I say dryly, and Marco makes a noise like a cross between a giggle and a groan. “Must be annoying, lugging that thing around all the time.”

Marco scoots closer to me a tiny bit, within arms’ reach, and the tail writhes and presses against the ground a bit to accommodate him. “What do you mean?”

I gesture to the dark mass. “Well, you know,” I point out, “you gotta drag it around everywhere, you know? It’s all heavy and everything. Or at least it looks heavy. And it takes up a lot of space. It just seems like it sucks to be attached to . . . I guess.” I trail off as I struggle to remember whether I’m breaking any of Ymir’s rules.

Marco is gazing at me quizzically, steadily. “I don’t drag my body around, Jean,” he says. “It’s how I move at all. I don’t drag myself around. Do you drag your legs around?”

“Well, no,” I reply, “but that’s different. That’s a tail, and you can’t walk with it, and . . .” I kind of lost where I was going with this. Nice.

“It’s not a tail.”

“What? Yeah it is.”

Marco frowns, confused. “It’s not a tail, Jean. It’s my body. Did you think it was a giant tail?”

I stare at it, at its uniform sleekness and shape, and then back up at him. “Isn’t that what it is?”

His lips quirk up in a smile a bit. “Oh, of course not! It’s a whooole body, not just a tail. It has lungs and a stomach and kidneys and everything. And a heart. Tails don’t have hearts.”

“Huh,” I grunt dumbly, only vaguely going along with what he’s trying to convey.

He turns to me, saying, “Here, I’ll prove it to you,” and, before I can even think to move, takes gentle hold of my wrists in both his hands; he places one of my hands upon his chest, directly over his heart, and the other, before I can protest, upon the belly of the snake, a spot roughly the equivalent length from his waist a knee would be.

My limbs lock; my whole body freezes, shock pinning me in place. I’m touching it. My hand is on it. I’m touching the thing. My hand is placed on the snake and it’s-

Dry. So dry and smooth my skin sticks to it immediately, catching and dragging across it with every minute movement. I was wrong; the shininess isn’t from being wet. It was never from being wet. It’s from how utterly _dry_ these scales are, every one. It lacks warmth, but not unpleasantly so; it’s more a coolness than a chilliness, and I can tell there’s heat in there somewhere. Under my palm I feel the rhythmic, steady beat of a heart, pulsing at the exact same pace as the one under my other hand, pressed against plain old human skin.

Marco’s grip withdraws swiftly from my wrists, and I reclaim my hands immediately, pulling them back to my chest. My palms tingle, imprinted upon them the sensation of touching him. “I’m sorry,” Marco says quietly. “I forgot you were still afraid of me. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Uh- It’s-“ I try to say what it is but can’t really put it into words. It’s not okay and it’s not _not_ okay, because I thought it would- _he_ would be slimy, but he isn’t, and-

“You know,” he murmurs, voice soft, “I won’t hurt you, Jean. And neither will my body. I know I look like a monster. I know. I look like a freak and I shouldn’t be like this. But this is my body, and I control every inch of it. It does only what I want it to. It’s not going to attack you; it’s not going to come alive on its own somehow and hurt you.”

My hands clench and unclench, stiff and white. “Yeah,” I say eventually, “I know.” And I do.

Marco sidles- no, his human half sidles away from me a bit. “You can touch me again if you want. I won’t move.”

I swallow, my heart steadily slowing to a calmer pace. The tai- no, _Marco_ hasn’t shifted away from me, belly still up, an open invitation I’m free to refuse. 

When I first saw and met him he was just _naga,_ a creature in the woods whose animalistic parts were a part of his monstrous nature. Then he became Ymir’s little brother, the sad boy with the unfortunate attachment of a tail. But he’s largely neither, or mostly both: Marco the naga, with a body made of separate halves but no less possessive of the whole, in a way. There is no getting around the tail to get to Marco; it is Marco.

I don’t move at first, but eventually my hand creeps down, fingers curled in trepidation, wrist trembling in anticipation of jerking my arm back. Marco just watches as I poke his snake belly and draw back for a moment, then, emboldened, lay the pads of my fingers on the creamy surface of his scales. Still dry, and still not slimy. They’re hard and soft at the same time; the scales themselves are solid as a fingernail, while his flesh as a whole yields under my hand like any other skin would.

His belly scales are wide, smooth, and rectangular, about the width of my hand, curved as they wrap around the trunk of his body, and I poke at the edges on his sides before looking interestedly at the differently-shaped scales adorning his back. As though sensing what I want Marco rotates his snake body until it’s right side up again. I let my fingers explore the tightly-layered scales on his back; they overlap each other slightly, forming a dense blanket of rounded pebbles, like a suit of armor. Their shape changes slightly as they reach from his belly scales to the top of his back, from blunt canine-like structures to more rounded ovals along his spine, all almost as big as my palm.

I have to marvel at it. It’s impossible not to. His body is dark chocolate brown and shimmering in the sparse sunlight, like a carpet of jewels. With so many scales on his body you’d expect it to be at least a _little_ sloppy, but every single one has its niche in relation with the others; not a single scale is out of place. It looks planned; it looks like a grand design.

Then I kind of realize that since this is literally Marco’s body I’m totally feeling him up or something. I sit back and pull my hands back to my lap, satisfied for now. “Are you still scared of me?” Marco wonders aloud.

“Not really,” I muse truthfully.

He nods, a gentle smile on his face. His absurdly large eyes are warm. “So.”

“So.”

“Since I let you touch me, can I touch your hair?”

Oh my _god._ I snort, “You’re still on about that, huh?”

He shrugs his shoulders, looking down at his lap. “It looks really interesting to touch! I’ve never seen hair looking like that before. I’m curious.”

I heave a heavy, exaggeratedly labored sigh, rolling my eyes, before slowly tilting my head a bit in his direction in embarrassed invitation. Marco makes a little delighted noise and wiggles his body around until he’s closer and facing me; I jerk out of reflex but otherwise don’t move. All right, I’m not gonna tolerate some, like, heavy-handed hair-pulling or something. I have limits.

I’m about to panic that no one has explained the ethics of touching another person to Marco and he might be too forceful or something, but when he reaches up with both hands and brushes my head with his fingertips his touch borders on feather-light. His eyes go wide with fascination as he cautiously runs his fingers first through the ashy long hair on the top of my head, and then moves his hands down to my temples to feel the shaved part. “It feels so fuzzy and soft.”

“Well, I hope so,” I mumble, staring down at my own lap. “I mean, it’d be weird if hair was hard.”

“Hair can’t do that, right?”

“Right.”

“Just making sure.” Marco’s hands hover by my ears as his fingertips explore the shaved patch on the back of my head. “Your hair is very pretty.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re generally very pretty,” he goes on; he’s gently touching the boundary between the roots of my longer hair and my shaved hair in such a manner that manages not to be weird. “Ymir said everyone from Trost was smelly and greasy and ugly, but you’re handsome, so maybe she just didn’t see you yet when she told me that.”

I scoff, closing my eyes and shaking my head. “Thanks. I think Ymir’s just a bitter old hag.” I wince. “Sorry.”

“No, no, she is a bitter old hag,” Marco agrees quickly, and I laugh. “But she’s done everything for me, and I’m very very grateful for her. Please don’t tell her I said she’s a bitter old hag.”

“Promise I won’t.” 

“Good.” Marco’s hands still, then draw sharply forward to the crown of my head, and he rustles them furiously through my hair, thoroughly messing it up; I yelp in indignation, pulling back and whacking him harshly in the shoulder. 

“You fucking bastard!” I holler.

Marco laughs, shielding himself with his arms. “I’m sorry. That was funny.”

I run my fingers through my hair, smoothing it back and shooting him glares empty of any real malice. The reluctant grin on my face kind of negates them. “You’re dead to me.”

Marco lolls his head to the side and crosses his eyes, sticking his tongue out like an exaggerated corpse. I guffaw. “Stop! I’m legitimately angry. You’re an asshole.”

 _“You’re_ an asshole.”

“I didn’t fuck up _your_ hair.” That gives me the idea, and I tense up, about to pounce for his head, but he jumps back and rises, his body feeding his ascension to a position resembling a standing one. “Oh, it’s getting a little too cold for me. “

“Oh, _right.”_

“No, really! We’ll head back to Ymir, right?”

“Right.” I sigh and stand, stretching and shivering a bit to work out the kinks of sitting down for so long a time in the cold. Sly bastard won this round.

On the way back Marco’s body winds awfully close to my feet, but somehow I don’t move away. I make the odd swipe or two for his hair, but he’s too quick to dodge for me to catch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ᕕ(∴ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°∴)ᕗ
> 
> Hah, whaaat? Good pacing? What's that.
> 
> There's no excuse for how late this is, but if I had to supply one, it'd go something like, "I'm a lazy distracted fuck and I need to acquire some chill."
> 
> This fic's hits and kudos continue to grow like crazy, even when I don't do shit to deserve it, and I'm grateful as well as guilty. Thank you all so, so much for your continued unflagging enthusiasm for this fic; it really makes me so unbelievably happy! I love comments most of all because they let me know how you feel, so if it's all right and you want to, maybe you could leave a comment? If not that's fine!
> 
> Hey, while you're perusing your Jeanmarco's, why not stop by my friend Jenny's fem!Jean fic, To Live Comfortably? http://archiveofourown.org/works/2509025/chapters/5572442 I'm the beta, and it's shaping up to be quite a ride. Give it a read!


	8. Sleepover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean Kirschtein, man of moments (and by moments I mean spells of idiocy).
> 
>  **SLEEPOVER** | _noun_ | an occasion of spending the night away from home, esp. as a party for children

**Sleepover**

“Try to keep up, Jean!”

 _“Right,”_ I gasp, cool air shooting in and out of my lungs at a temperature too frigid to bring relief and a pace too rapid to be healthy. My legs are so wobbly I’m about to trip right over them, and I try to devote less attention to them and more to Ymir’s steadily retreating back.

Board up the windows; close down the streets. Ymir somehow coerced or seduced or cowed or mortally threatened or  _something me_ to actually get me to jog with her on this crisp Saturday morn, and when I say  _crisp_ I mean there are legitimate  _ice pockets forming in my windpipe._ My hands are beyond saving at this point; they’re white as cloth and stiff as icicles, and I keep them locked in place so I don’t have to focus on the painful numbness.

“You should’ve worn gloves,” Ymir observes pointedly, jutting her chin at my hands as she reduces her pace enough to run beside me. She’s the pinnacle of prime running form, arms folded neatly and evenly by her ribs, breath coming to her inhumanly easy, neat ponytail bobbing with every effortless stride. Superhuman  _bitch._ I’m flailing like an idiot.

“You should suck my  _dick,”_ I wheeze back, instantly regretting my retort, as it just cost me  _extra_ air. Whenever I stop running Ymir charges at me with singular ferocious purpose, and it’s enough to spur me into running like the dickens to avoid whatever the hell she has in store.

Ymir -  _unbelievable -_ turns right around, somehow jogging backwards and still managing to go just as fast, watching me disinterestedly. “Mine is probably more impressive than yours.”

“Do you-“ I stop talking to pant, trying to make my legs flail a bit less. “-actually have one?”

“Naw, I’m messing with you. I have three!”

_“Shutthefuckup.”_

“Stop wasting breath. You’re supposed to be running.”

Easy for her to say, with that steadiness that would be more appropriate in the voice of a Ymir sitting calmly down. She turns back around, running the human way, her footsteps crunching the carpet of leaves on the dirt road we’re running down. We’ve left behind Trost proper, exiting southward, jogging past houses like mine, then shacks, then uninhabited forest as I got swiftly more and more exhausted once I realized that first of all, running is fucking difficult, and second, Ymir doesn’t find it hard at all, and she will never let me forget it.

South of Trost lies farmland, where we grow corn and squash and all of our other crops, as well as raise herds of cattle and sheep and all our other livestock. I don’t really come out here often; Dad has a few friends that live in the expansive farms out here, and when he visits he makes me tag along, but I usually get quickly bored with the monotony and comparative rusticity. I’m much more used to being crowded by houses and trees, not left out in open space surrounded by even rows of vegetation and fields for grazing.

We jog past a solitary farmhouse, perched upon a rolling lawn of lush green grass still hanging onto its color in the midst of autumn. Rainbow-leaved trees dot the berms beside us, their clustered branches giving them shapes like organic raindrops on trunks. To our left is a cornfield, wide, thick leaves green and stalks decaying brown, dense and impenetrable; to our right is a split-rail fence, gray and splintery, containing a field of browning grazing grass and a cluster of lazy black-and-white cows lying down together in the brush. The day’s kind of muggy, and white fog swallows the impressive distance that can be seen across the horizon.

It’s too much for me right now; my feet thud to a sloppy stop and I hunch over, panting. My thighs tingle as blood returns to them. Ymir approaches me, and I raise a hand, not even looking. “Don’t kill me.”

“You’re weak,” she observes.

“I noticed. Did you also - ugh - notice this is the first time I’ve run, like, ever, and you took me all the way out here-”

 _“Weeaaaak._ Wanna head back?”

I jerkily straighten back up, my breath ghosting up around my face. “If we actually stop running and go back - _gah -_  I will eat you out.”

Ymir wrinkles her nose. “This isn’t a very emotionally rewarding first date. Come on, weakling. I’ll make us tea.” She beckons with one finger, her footsteps crunching as she turns to set back toward town.

“Where?” I gasp, tottering after her with exhaustion-locked knees and hips that feel like they’re about to fall right apart.

“My house, of course. You need a drink after our leisurely promenade.”

“That was  _not_ a promenade. That was a torture session. For all I know, your tea’s gonna be as unpleasant as you are.”

“You think I’m unpleasant? Wait until you meet my cat.”

Optimally I want to spend the rest of my morning in a warm ball under my covers, and I debate with excusing myself with some bullshit excuse like having to scrub my sheets or my dog or my brother, but I  _am_ thirsty as hell, and some social interaction isn’t going to kill me. At least I hope not.

The walk back is quiet, save for my obnoxious breathing and clumsy, heavy footsteps. Ymir strolls with a bored face, accompanied by a straight back and even strides; I sneak peeks at her in an attempt to imitate her, hoping it’ll magically lend me some of her longevity. Obviously I am unsuccessful.

She seems content with our lack of conversation, as we remain silent all the way in through town and up to her broad and shallow porch. Her wares aren’t out here yet, apparently, as the space is bare. She opens her rickety wood-and-mesh storm door outward to let us through the main one and ushers me into her home with a shrug of her shoulder, abandoning me in the doorway to cross over to the other side of the room. “Hope you like black tea.”

“Never tried it,” I reply, standing around awkwardly. Ymir’s house is cluttered and tidy at the same time; mismatched furniture stand upon mismatches rugs, and paintings of all shapes and sizes hang from the walls, depicting everything from countryside scenery to everyday objects to aimless splatters of paint, all of different color and style and tone (I look away before I can start critiquing them too much). A rocking chair and a frayed, greying sofa with threads hanging off the backrest and legs like frizzy hair sit against the wall to my right next to a brick fireplace holding a contained pile of still-glowing embers, and a singular door across from me must lead to Ymir’s bedroom. To my left is a counter where various pots and pans and other cooking utensils hang, as well as countless rows of spices and wrapped herbs under a windowsill where three potted spider-plants drape their haphazardly overgrown leaves and buds.

Everything is even and dusted spotless, and would look like a pretty nice home, except for the huge-ass pile of twisted wooden shit in the middle of the room. I guess this is where Ymir puts her wares when she’s not home. Everything from chairs to baskets to little figurines to an entire couch, all of wicker, are meticulously piled atop each other to make room for all that craftsmanship. It must be a bitch moving all this shit in and out all the time. I hope Eren has to do it.

“You can sit on the couch,” Ymir calls from a cabinet next to the counter, from which she withdraws two white teacups and a kettle. I do that awkward do-not-take-up-too-much-space-in-an-unfamiliar-house shuffle to the couch and sit down delicately on the edge, looking around.

A ball of staticky fur on the arm of the sofa next to me pulses softly with breath and slowly unfurls, revealing a small, fat gray tabby, whose eyes squeeze shut as it yawns and stretches its front legs out. Upon setting its bright blue eyes on me it makes a tiny cat noise in its throat and daintily pads toward me, whiskers drawing back as it offers a clicking, fluttery meow. It doesn’t hesitate to crawl on my lap and curl up snugly, tilting its head up at me, eyes closed as it purrs deafeningly.

“Aw,” I squeak, smoothing down the fur on its head, and the amplitude of its purring increases tenfold. What a cutie. I don’t know what Ymir was talking about when she said her cat was unpleasant.

Ymir looks over her shoulder at the noise I made, then turns back with a smirk. “I’d get her off you, if I were you.”

“Why? She’s sweet,” I protest, tickling her big fuzzy belly; she pushes herself onto her back in bliss, purring like a tiger.

“I wouldn’t do that …”

I try to ask her what she means, I really do, but I’m quickly interrupted by this  _big fucking black thing_ streaking out of the mass of wicker in the middle of the room; the beast latches onto my leg and I feel wicked claws punch right through my pants, grazing my skin, accompanied by this horrible fucking growling noise, and I kick my legs in mortal frenzy, yelling incoherently. The tabby somehow remains on my lap, her eyes sliding open quite disinterestedly to see what the ruckus is about.

 _“What the fuck,”_ I squeak, basically smothering this poor tabby against my chest because I’ve got my legs drawn up in a fetal position on the couch. This fucking  _gigantic_ black cat, literally a fucking monstrosity, is standing back arched on the ground before me, its long ears set back behind its triangular face, its fur standing straight up along its spine, its tail whipping back and forth like a dog’s. It’s practically the  _size_ of a dog, and sounds like a pretty fucking convincing one judging by the hellish noise it’s emitting. I’ve never heard a cat growl that deep.

“Who the fuck are you?” I yell stupidly at it. The tabby leans up and warmly headbutts my chin, a stark contrast to that fucking hellhound.

Ymir turns to me with cups in hand, rolling her eyes, as if being attacked by fucking panthers is a daily occurrence around here. “Move, idiot,” she grumbles at the black cat, nudging it with her foot as she walks up to me; it lurches to the side, hissing savagely, but does not move its gaze from me. Does it have red fucking eyes? Holy fucking shit. Its eyes are fucking red. Who let the devil enter this home? Who sinned?

She hands me the cup and I accept it with shaking hands. “Why.”

“They’re Nax and Rose, king and queen of the house. They’re married,” Ymir says frankly, flopping on the couch beside me. The tabby rolls off me and settles between us, apparently unable to decide whose lap to curl up on.

“Huh.” The black cat is still right fucking there.

“If you touch her, well …” Ymir says casually, sipping her tea. “He gets really jealous.”

“I was just petting her,” I whine at the black cat. “Fuck off, Max.”

“Nax.”

“Nax?”

“Short for Anaximander.”

“So you’ve got a cat named Rose and a cat named …  _Anaximander.”_

She shrugs. “They’re book characters. Marco has a copy.”

I reach down to stroke Rose, then, upon hearing Anaxiwhoeverwhatthefuckshisname’s snarling swell, decide against it, holding my cup with both hands instead. “Where?”

“Where he is in the woods.”

“No, I mean, where does he keep the book? Does he have a place he stays?”

Ymir nods. “He has a cave. He’s got a whole shelf of books in there. The one I’m talking about, he must’ve read it, like, dozens of times, and that is no small book.”

Ew, reading for fun. “A cave?” I immediately picture a dark, dank little hole for Marco to squeeze into and wait out the cold and the night.

“Yup. I’d show you where it is, but whether or not you get the privilege is up to him.”

I blow across the surface of my tea, sending steam in (the still fucking  _snarling)_ Anaxiwhatever’s direction, and take a sip. Past the burn on the tip of my tongue I can taste the bitter flavor. Holy  _shit_ this tea is pretty nasty. I wrinkle my nose and ask, “What does he do?”

“Huh?”

“Like, when you’re not around. What does he do? Hunt, I guess?”

“Not everything that goes on in the woods is hunting, you know.”

I shrug. “I wouldn’t know.”

“He, uh-“ Ymir takes another swig. “Stuff. He reads. Sleeps. Wanders around. He doesn’t hunt much because he doesn’t eat that often. I never really ask him, now that I think about it. I’m more occupied with whether he’s feeling all right.”

“What do you mean, he doesn’t eat that often?” I ask. “What, does he starve?”

Ymir strokes the top of Rose’s head; the tabby looks skyward with a blissful face, a tiny “mruh” humming from her throat. “Snakes don’t got to eat that much, so he doesn’t either. He likes snacking on the bread and things, and sometimes he’ll ask for me to bring jerky or veggies if he’s craving ‘em, but he doesn’t need it to live. We’ve gotta eat a ton throughout the day compared to him, but snakes eat, like, once every few months because they digest so slow.”

My eyes widen a bit as I listen to this, sort of nodding along to her words. “That’s fuckin’ weird. So he just eats the rolls and stuff? He lives off of that?”

“Oh no, the rolls and the other things I bring are just supplements. They’re side dishes. His main meals are what he actually hunts. He only needs to eat them about once a month or two.”

“And … what does he hunt?”

“Usually? Whole deer.”

I scrunch up my eyebrows. “So he eats an entire deer once a month and barely eats anything else for the rest of the time?” What kind of sense does that make? Why not just eat normal meals all throughout the month? I know my dad can make a single deer last a whole month through stews and various other dishes. Oh, and now I’m craving venison. Nice.

“Yup.”

“Like … how? Does he know how to cook it?”

“Nope. Raw.”

The image of Marco, claws and fangs and all, tearing into a deer carcass, mouth bloodied and hands dripping with red, flashes through my head.  _“What?_ So, what, does he just … you know, find a deer and go to town? Takes bites out of it and shit?”

“Of course not. That’s fucking stupid.” Ymir shrugs nonchalantly. “Not really a point in cooking or portioning something that’s all going in the same place anyway. When I say he eats an  _entire_ deer, Jim, I mean the  _whole thing._ In one swallow.”

I snort, thinking she’s exaggerating to highlight his appetite or something, but her face is quite casual. “Uh … you’re not kidding, are you.”

“Nope. I know it sounds impossible, but … it’s quite a sight to behold.” She holds her hands up, parallel to the ground and joined at the wrists and fingertips, palms facing each other. “You can open your mouth like this,” she says, and moves the fingers of the hand on the bottom a little bit away from those on the top, tapping them together. “Marco can open his mouth like  _this.”_ She spreads her hands away from each other, then separates her wrists, spreading them far apart.

She smirks at the expression on my face. “Been a while since I’ve seen him actually do it, considering he gets so embarrassed about the whole process.”

I wiggle my jaw around a bit. “How is that even possible?”

She shrugs. “Just how he is. Imagine my shock when he first did that. You should see him  _yawn,_ it’s  _hilarious.”_

Anaxywhoey slowly eases himself into a sitting position, tail still whipping up a frenzy, furious eyes locked on me. They’re brown, not red. I mean, you can forgive me for thinking they were red.

“That reminds me,” Ymir says, nudging me with her elbow. “You free on the full moon?”

“Uh. I guess?” It’s not like anyone really does anything on the full moon. You’re not really encouraged to have anything going on then. For as long as I can remember, there’ve been some … unconventional happenings on the night of the full moon. The valley’s filled with these eerie, unexplainable noises, like howls and screeches, coming from god knows where. No one’s been attacked or anything, but … I mean, why would  _you_ want to be out then? It’s freaky as hell. Nick says it’s “the horrors kept only at bay by our devotion” or something. Everything’s a horror to that guy.

“Oh, good. Marco and I have a sleepover every full moon, and he wanted to invite you this time around.”

“A sleepover where? Your house? Wait, is he allowed around here. He’s not, is he-“

“No, idiot, at  _his_ house. Cave. Basically it’s a campout. It’s fun! We do it every full moon. Marco asked me to ask you, and then he yelled at me to tell you it was his idea. Interested?”

“Well, uh …”

Ymir waves a hand in my direction. “If you’re worried about all the yelling and screeching at night, don’t be. Trust me.”

Well it was nice of her to address the base of my apprehension. “I don’t know …”

Ymir shrugs, sipping her tea again. “I mean, it’s your choice. Don’t feel pressured by the fact that, I don’t know, poor baby Marco’s gonna get so disappointed.” She frowns. “Don’t lose sleep over his broken little heart.”

She shoots me a grin, and I stick my tongue out at her. “I’ll get back to you. I’m not too keen on the idea of spending a whole night with people who have probably brought me closer to death than anyone else in my entire life.”

“Oh would you forget about the berserk thing! Move on. We have.”

“Your lives weren’t in danger,” I whine.

“His was, when I wasn’t sure you were going to tell anyone back home what he was. Still feel the temptation?”

“Nah.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.” She’s looking at me, so I shrug my shoulders. “Marco’s pretty harmless. The snake part isn’t even that bad either. It’s just weird.”

“He told me you touched him,” she simpers smugly.

“ _Totally_ felt him up.”

Ymir snorts. “He’s pretty interesting. Sometimes I underestimate how strong his body is, but then he pulls shit like- like that one time with the bird. He wraps his body around you, and you can’t do shit.”

“It looks like a big muscly tail. Interesting fact there, too. About the bird fear.” I grin at the grumbles she hides behind her teacup. “What a blow to your reputation it would be if it got out the fearless Ymir was scared of a _bluejay.”_

“Stop. Marco gives me enough shit about it,” she gripes.

“Is this why you have cats? To scare the birds away?”

 _“Stop,_ you little fucker. I’m giving you  _nourishment,_ and this is how you repay me?”

I wave my teacup exaggeratedly; Anagofuckyourself resumes growling at my movement, and I shrink my arm back rather meekly. “You call this nourishment? My tongue is about to fall off.”

Ymir nods. “I know, I know, it’s an acquired taste. I grew up with it. It’s like water to me now.”

 _“Gross,”_ I say as I finish my cup. “You gonna nourish me similarly if I go to this sleepover?”

Ymir smiles and cocks her head cheekily. “No tea, I promise. Only the finest venison stew, deer provided by Marco and cooked by me.”

“Will there be carrots in this stew?”

“If you provide them, sure.”

“… I might be interested.”

v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v

I’ve got to say, my weekly forays into the forest get a lot easier with all that discomfort removed. I know, I’ve said it like three times already, but I am  _truly_ over the snake bit. Seriously.

Actually, the system in place at this point in time is still one I surely haven’t experienced ever, but it’s a far cry from the awkwardness of before. I’d spent weeks pretending Marco never existed; now I physically can’t, for as he’s felt the limitations we placed upon each other lifted just like I have, he’s now unable to stay away from me. Every day he accosts me with questions I’ve never quite expected to be asked before. I’m torn between irritated and bafflingly amused.

“Why do you need to tie them?” Marco demands one morning, picking at my shoelaces with curious fingers; after some gentle cajoling from him I allowed him to take a closer look at my shoes, just to be nice, because I’m nice like that. I’m sitting on a hump of dry grass, browned by autumn, leaning back against the fallen tree with my legs stretched out, trying to figure out how to hold this whittling knife at such an angle that I don’t kill myself. Ymir gave me some random stick and told me to make it smooth by the time she comes back from shoving a squirrel up her vagina or whatever else she’s doing in the forest. She probably pulled the exercise right out of her ass. This has nothing to do with archery.

“So they don’t slip off.”

“But  _why?”_ he breathes. He’s sprawled on his side upon the ground beside my feet, leaning his head in his hand, his tail-  _snake body_ in big bundles all over the place. His finger traces the loop of my shoelace’s knot, end to end, as though trying to memorize the path. _“_ Can’t people make them tight enough that they stay on your foot without slipping off? Gloves don’t need laces.”

“Well …” I wiggle my ankle around contemplatively, and Marco whips his hands off me and stares in fascination. I snort. “I don’t really know, honestly. I guess if boots were that tight it would hurt your foot with the motion of your walking, you know?”

“I don’t know,” Marco states frankly. “I forget what my feet felt like.”

“Oh.” Well.

I let my foot rest again and Marco returns his attention to it. “Gloves don’t hurt, but they stay on your hand. Maybe there are gloves with laces, though. Maybe it depends on the material the gloves are made with. The bow is cute, though. I like the bow. Are they all like that?”

“Yup. I like the bow too.” I manage to get a gnarly knot in this damn branch picked off; it goes flying and lands in Marco’s tangled black mane. I reach forward to pick it out after a moment’s hesitation. I decide against explaining the different kinds of knots. “Everyone does it like that.”

Marco apparently decides now’s prime time to unravel my shoelace’s knot, and I roll my eyes as I drag my knee up to draw my foot closer, retying the knot. “Don’t do that.” I give his shoulder a light, unthreatening shove when he grins and sticks his tongue out at me. Marco takes the blow in silent stride and watches my fingers with rapt fascination, the tip of his dark tail twitching in the grass.  There’s a curve of his snake body that’s pretty close to my leg, and it never occurs to me to pull away.

Marco manages to untie my shoelaces two more times without me noticing, and even pulls the entire lace out at of my shoe one point, and as I’m yelling, “Would you fucking  _stop?”_ and grabbing at Marco to punish him Ymir comes back to find my stick still quite gnarled. Fun.

Marco’s even more talkative when Ymir’s not around. For a guy whose only human contact is his sister, Marco’s shown every indication he learned nothing from her. Marco is eager and soft-spoken in every way Ymir isn’t; it’s the wonder the two are even related. “Do people have horses?” Marco calls on the slope of his basking hill one day; I’m walking down first as he follows close behind, trotting animatedly on his hands after me with a bounce in his step (hand-step?) like a terrier who just ran down a fox. “I can’t remember the last time I was on a horse!”

“Yeah, sure do,” I grunt, focusing on maintaining my balance and giving only some of my attention to the curious naga behind me. The pathway is such that at certain intervals when I turn and he still hasn’t we’re at eye level, giving me a good view of his big beaming grin.

“Do you own a horse?”

“Nope. My friend Connie, though, their mom owns the ranch.” I wonder idly if it’s even appropriate to call Connie my friend, seeing as I can’t remember the last time we spoke and neither of us have made a move to remedy that. Poor definition of friend it is, then, to base companionship on months and years ago.

“Is a ranch where people buy horses?”

“Yup. Buy ‘em, breed ‘em, raise ‘em.”

“So who  _does_ own horses?” Marco presses ardently. “Does everyone have a horse? Or two, so they don’t get lonely? Where do you keep them? Can you keep them in a house?”

I round a bend, arms swinging as I turn my head and raise my eyebrows at him. He’s forgotten our established rule. “One question at a time, remember?”

“I’m sorry for asking too many questions. What is it- what is it that dictates who has horses and who doesn’t have horses?”

I chew my lip as I try to think of an answer he would understand. “Money, I think. Preference. Some people don’t like horses. Some people don’t have a use for them.”

“What percentage of people have horses in Trost?”

 _“No_ idea.”

“Are horses costly?”

“Think so.”

“B-But if your friend, Connie, if she gave you-“

“They.”

“-if they gave you a horse as a favor because you’re a good friend, would you buy one?”

Connie’s been in the middle of too many horse jokes at the expense of my regal visage for me to even consider such a scenario (my priorities are such that the horse joke thing comes before hypothetical monetary and spacial factors, awesome). “Nah. I don’t like horses.”

“Why not?”

“They smell bad and they’re ugly.”

I hear Marco muttering to himself behind me; he does this often, like he forgets I’m there and continues the conversation anyway. Loony. “Tell me about Connie.” He pauses, then blurts out, just remembering, “Please! Please tell me about Connie. I’m sorry, I forgot to say please.”

“Just a person I knew. Know,” I correct myself. I hope that’ll be the end of it, but Marco clearly has other ideas.

“What’re they like? Are they nice?”

“Yeah,” I say shortly.

“What do they look like?”

I sigh loudly, tilting my head back. “Short, dumb, no hair.”

Marco comes right back with, “So when people have friends, how often do they see their friends?”

“The hell does that mean?”

Marco pauses, then says, “How many times a day do people usually see their friends?”

“Like- like hang  _out_  with your friends? Uh … I don’t know. Whenever.”

“How many times a day?”

“It’s not like there’s a quota people fill,” I tell him, looking back over my shoulder at him as I walk, “where people have to, like, interact with their friends a certain amount of times or some shit. You just hang out whenever you feel like it. Whenever you have time.”

Marco absorbs this with a thoughtful expression. “Does Trost have sleepovers?”

“Yup. I think sleepovers are kinda-“ I trail my hand against a particularly steep portion of the slope beside me, close enough for me to reach; my fingers dislodge clusters of dirt and weak earthy roots. “-a universal constant everywhere there’s kids.”

I refuse to be bitter about anything going on at Trost; Trost is  _fine,_ and I don’t need people willing to drop me in my life anyway, and I es _pec_ ially refuse to acknowledge any fault on my part for why exactly I don’t have friends. You shouldn’t need to change for your friends, right?

Another fun new part to our arrangement is the fact that Marco is not the only one who partakes in the staring bit. Okay, this might be a  _little_ creepy and rude, but my circumstances are a little justified, don’t you think? It’s not every day a half-snake and half-human teenage boy is in direct contact with you. And with Marco not avoiding me as often, it gives me plenty of opportunities to learn about him.

By “learn” I mean stare at him when he’s not looking. It’s an art.

No, this is not the same thing that I’ve been telling him to stop. He’s weird. I’m interested. It’s justified.

The way he moves is as infinitely interesting as it is alien. The times I’d seen him stand - if you can call it standing, without legs, I mean - like when we’d first met, and when we first went to go dislodge that log, gave me a false impression of exactly how much that happens. Most of the time, Marco moves around crawling on his hands. It explains why they’re so rough and calloused, at least (he still shakes my hand every day, yes). Maybe he was just rearing up more to seem a little more normal to me, which I wouldn’t be surprised at, but he’s appeared to have abandoned that concept now that I’ve touched him. He seems to prefer to rear up only when looking at something, or when he wants to be at eye level with me or Ymir, otherwise to talk to him you’d better be ready to bend over and look around your knees. He crawls with his torso leaned forwards, suspended horizontally a few feet above the ground, his arms keeping him aloft as he trots lightly on his hands; his body slowly and shallowly arcs toward the ground until it meets soil a few feet down his snake belly, leaving his human skin untouched by the earth save for his palms. He doesn’t drag himself with his hands; he is  _propelled_ by the snake body, and the walking-on-hands thing is more like something to do with them, because otherwise they’d just be kind of hanging there. When standing in one place he tends to either rear up slightly to look around, lie on his side to rest, or just stand there balancing on his hands, his head stiffly upright to pay attention to me doing something or to Ymir bitching about another thing.

He doesn’t always slither straight; it took me a while to figure out exactly what decides how he slithers, and it’s the terrain he glides upon. If the ground’s kind of bumpy and full of obstacles, like in the middle of the forest, his body curves at a minimum; otherwise on flatter, slicker ground, like in the the glade, it’s always his characteristic wide arches, and I’m going to admit right now it took a little bit not to find that funny, because his entire body moves along the loopy path and it starts with the head. There’s something ridiculous about Marco padding along in a rounded zigzag when he’s trying to get to someplace straight in front of him.

He also seems to lack the ability to do the shit I do all day: sitting. I mean, I guess it makes sense, considering he doesn’t have a butt. He substitutes by lying on his stomach, propped up on his elbows. I remember how awkward he looked when we sat together in the gorge; he seems to have given up the copying stuff for now. Though I (mercifully) pretend not to notice when I see him fiddling with his hair at the same time I am, or experimentally positioning his arms the same way I do, or mouthing the words I’m saying (or probably yowling, if it’s at Ymir). Well, Ymir says he’s got to learn how to socialize by copying, right? No skin off my back for him to learn from a _socialization master_ (hah hah hah) (I have no friends).

He uses his snake tongue on a near-constant basis, and it goes to show how much he was restraining himself before. At least once a minute he whirrs his tongue out, and it’s usually more constant than that. I’m quite unaffected by the faint sound of his flapping tongue by now, as well as the sight of it hovering nearby. He’s also not limited to strictly horizontal or vertical suspension, nor the heights a human would find normal. His snake body never curves back on itself at such a sharp angle that I see skin rolls (scale rolls?); there is always a bit of space in the inside of the curves of his body, no matter how tightly wound he is. He often raises himself in such a way so that his human torso and the first ten feet of his snake half are hovering off the ground, usually with his flexible spine curved like an S, and he turns by folding the lower curve of the S until he’s facing the other direction. He can position himself so that he looks like a torso sticking out of the ground if he wants, and Ymir still laughs at the expression on my face when I turned to see the product of Marco’s curiosity when he saw a cardinal on a high branch on the edge of the clearing. Instead of gazing from afar, he chose instead to rear up a staggering fifteen feet off the ground to get a closer look, as if it took no effort at all.

It becomes a little simpler to understand, I suppose, once I internalize the concept that Marco isn’t  _supposed_ to move like a human would; why would he, when ninety percent of him is cobra? It’s less like he’s a human walking around with a snake body instead of legs, and much more like a giant snake moving around with a human torso instead of a head. Him slithering around while constantly “standing” would be like a snake slithering around constantly rearing. Him sitting down would be like a snake flipping its neck over and touching the base of its head to the ground as it bends its actual head skyward. Snakes don’t do that, right? How uncomfortable would that be?

And all this just from observation. I suppose it pays to have an artist’s brain.

And listen, I know this is a  _horrifically_  weird thing to focus on, but there’s also this part near the end of his body where the thickness very  _very_  slightly changes, gets a little thinner at a more gradual rate, and the shape of his scales suddenly turns round and small and becomes spaced further apart. It took me a while to figure out, but I’m pretty sure that’s where his tail begins, and therefore is where his ass is. Once I get further confirmation, I’M GONNA KICK IT.

The snake part still gives me some decent surprises, though. One day I walk into the clearing and Marco is already there, and he’s not coiled up like he usually is. He’s lying stretched out nearly in a straight line, head pillowed in his arms with his eyes closed, shaggy hair resting on his face. And midway down his body is this very pronounced bulge, a couple of feet long and around twice his normal body’s width, just kind of sitting there.

I slow upon seeing it, not really sure what to make of the obstruction. Ymir twists her leg up sideways at the knee to kick my ass lightly as she passes, not even pausing. “You all right?” she calls casually, and the only part of Marco that moves is his arm as it languidly lifts to give her a silent thumbs up.

“Uhh …” I sidle after Ymir, staring pretty unashamedly at Marco’s … growth. “Is he pregnant?”

Ymir, who just went to take a sip of something out of a skin on her belt, nearly spits it back up. She swallows, wheezing and bending over.  _“Christ.”_

“Well, what is it? He looks dead,” I demand. “And pregnant. He has a lump.”

“He  _ate,”_ Ymir tells me, putting her stuff down. “That’s a … well, looks like a deer. Deer?” Marco doesn’t respond. “Eh, he’s asleep. Eating conks him out like nothing else.”

“He did the, the-“ I put my hands next to my jaws and spread them apart. “-thing?”

“Yeah, the thing.” Okay. I guess we’re just gonna run with the fact that there is a huge clump of raw dead deer inside her brother’s body right now.

“Mnnn,” Marco grunts, and shifts, apparently not asleep. He lifts himself on wobbly arms, head drooping, blinking around in our direction with familiar lethargy. His snake tongue jets out once, twice, three times. Suddenly he freezes, and blinks up at me. He clutches the log clumsily as the middle portion of his snake body bends, lump and all, out of sight behind the log. “Hi.”

“Last meal of the year, baby?” Ymir calls, and he nods. “Good timing. Should get colder a little earlier this winter. When do you shed?”

Marco shrugs glumly, wearily collapsing back into his pillowed position. “Hopefully  _never.”_

“Marco.”

“Maybe in few weeks. I can feel it. I’m a little tight.”

I refrain from making a dirty joke and give Ymir a questioning look. She waves a hand at me dismissively, so I dismiss it. Another thing I don’t understand. Shedding is when dogs lose their hair, right? Probably has a different meaning for Marco.

It snows for the first time one Wednesday; it isn’t cold enough to stick and blanket the ground, but it lends a pretty sight as the slow-moving specks drift lazily to the earth. A carpet of fiery leaves blanket the ground around the tree line, growing less dense as it nears the fallen tree until there’s just a circular patch of open land around us, like a wave of autumnal death. Marco’s feeling it, I can tell. The earth surrounding the fallen tree has gotten sandier with each passing week as the grass browns and dies, and Marco seems to find it more pleasurable to be curled up in a tight ball embedded in a shallow bowl in the sand instead of on the log. I don’t know where he got it - maybe Ymir brought it and I didn’t notice - but he has a dark knitted blanket draped over his shoulders to block out the snowflakes. Occasionally his whole body shivers violently, his scales rippling, and he rapidly spins in place like a dog does before settling down again, flinging sand everywhere. He drapes the thinner loops of his snake body around his neck and shoulders like a scarf, his slender tail-tip twitching and waving stiffly next to his ear. He looks miserable.

Ymir and I are having yet another debate on religion, though I’m glad we’ve moved past the you’re-an-idiot-and-I’m-not stage. She leans her elbows on her knees, hands poised in front of her as she squints, thinking about what to say. “It’s not about the concept of it  _at all._ I mean, religion is great. Religion is awesome! Hell, I’m religious. But … when your  _entire town_ is the same exact one, I mean … what happens when someone doesn’t want to be?”

“No one doesn’t want to be,” I fire back immediately, and Ymir shakes her head.

“See, that’s exactly what I’m talking about. The social snubbing that happens when you decide  _not_ to practice this religion extends to the whole town because the whole town practices this  _one_ religion all together. And the reaction to when someone leaves the church is  _nuts._ It’s like you committed cannibalism or something.”

“What’s wrong with us all having the same religion?” I demand. “I mean, it’s not hurting anyone. We have a right to have it.”

“First of all, you’ve got to understand that that church and that pastor literally call Marco the child of the devil, so I’m a bit biased.”

“You are the devil, Ymir,” I hear Marco say quietly, and I laugh.

“Well that was nice of you! No, I mean … you’ve got to have a little variety. It’s the spice of life. Christ, if Nick tells you to stand on your head and spit nickels, you all would  _do_ it. Can you get why that freaks me out a little bit?”

“Just because we have loyalty doesn’t mean we’re a cult,” I return, setting down my antler (guess what I’m doing!) ( _fucking knapping!_ ) to better concentrate on the conversation. “I mean, we owe a lot to the church  _and_ to Pastor Nick. They’re the main source of food and shelter to anyone who needs it; all you have to do is ask. It brings us, y’know, together as a town, like nothing else does. You telling me you don’t want an afterlife?”

“Depends on what constitutes an afterlife to you. Now, according to my mother’s religion, there is no afterlife. According to my father’s, you have to be reborn eleven times before you can truly enter one of three heavens of your choosing. And according to my aunt’s, the afterlife is a choice of any living thing to latch yourself onto and live through their eyes. And my neighbor’s-“

“No, I don’t mean those fake ones, I mean the ones where you can spend forever with your family and shit.”

“To me,  _yours_ is fake.”

“What? No!”

“In Jinae there were at least thirteen religions at any given time, and that’s not counting the ones that rotated out with every season of new and leaving residents. I mean, at least three worshipped  _demons,_ but the important bit was that no one gave a shit  _what_ you worshipped, as long as you were respectful of everyone else. It was religious utopia compared to here, where-“

“Stop talking about this, it’s boring,” Marco says suddenly, emerging from his own body to creep over to Ymir, going slow and jerky. He sits his human half right down in Ymir’s lap, drawing the blanket about his shoulders. “Talk about something else.”

“That’s rude, Marco,” Ymir says calmly. “You’re supposed to let people talk about whatever they want.”

“It is? I’m sorry,” Marco says. “You’re both speaking severely and I just don’t want you to get mad at each other again.”

“We’re having an intellectual conversation. Don’t worry, we won’t get mad. If you want someone to stop talking about something, you ask politely if they could change the subject, or change it yourself.”

Marco listens rapturously, brow furrowed in thought. “So … could I say … ‘Would you kindly change the subject’ … ?”

“Or, ‘Can we talk about something else?’ or something, yup.”

“Okay.  _Can we talk about something else._ Okay. I’ll remember that.” Marco looks up at me. “Hi, Jean. Did I shake your hand yet? My head slows down a lot when it’s cold.”

“Yup.”

“Okay.”

“Start knapping, Jean,” Ymir reminds me sharply, and I let out an exaggerated cross between a groan and a sigh.

“Oh let me take a  _break._ My fingers are gonna fall off.”

“You barely did anything!”

“My fingers are icicles right now. They’re gonna snap right off any second now. Feel them, Ymir.”

“No.”

I lean forward and put my fingers on her cheek, and she rears back with an undignified squall. Marco reaches up and grabs my retreating fingers, then rips his hand off like he’s been burned. “That cannot be normal,” he insists.

“I’ve just got bad circulation. My dad and my brother have it a little worse than I do,” I explain, wiggling my rigid fingers. “My toes are frozen too.”

“I think you mean circulation as in your veins. They’re smaller in your fingers and toes. You must be so uncomfortable,” Marco says with distress, and reaches for my hands; he takes his blanket off his shoulders and wraps my hands together in them tightly.

“Uhh,” I grunt, looking down at my effectively bound hands. “Thanks.”

“I can keep warm. I have Ymir,” Marco tells me quite contentedly, and Ymir nearly falls on him in an exaggeratedly aggressive hug, wrestling him back and forth.

“Whoops, Ymir,” I say with a grin, holding up my hands. “Looks like no work for me. My hands are trapped.”

“Oh bullshit.”

“Nuh- _uh,_  my hands are trapped.”

“Take the blanket off, then.”

“And break poor innocent Marco’s heart, after he gifted me with this-“ I brandish my cramped hands. “-lovely gift here, that he gifted me so generously with?”

“You’re so full of shit.  _Both_ of you,” she adds, when Marco turns a pouty face up at her. Solidarity. “Whatever, it’s cold anyway. Marco, didn’t I knit you that?”

“Yes you did.”

“Don’t get that dirty, Jean. I’m fond of it.”

I mime an extremely disgusted face at my hands, and she kicks my knee. “Behave.”

“OW! Holy shit, what the hell is in your shoe?” I demand, shuffling awkwardly away. Felt like damn metal.

“My dick.” She kicks me again, earning another yelp from me. “Jealous of my strong legs?”

“I’m going to  _bruise!_ They don’t  _look_ that strong.”

“What do you want me to do, flash you? I don’t need to prove myself.”

“Please flash me.” She kicks me. “Hot.”

“Stop.”

“No.” I flail my feet up and kick her clumsily in the shin. She clutches her leg dramatically.

“The agony! I’m blown away by your strength! Do it again, I might actually feel it this time.”

“Don’t fight!” Marco insists.

“You’re right, Marco. Let’s channel our aggression into something productive. Like knapping. Which Jean should be doing.”

I look at my flint, then back at her. “Or we could not do that and enjoy this lovely day.”

“It’s snowing and it’s colder than my desolate arctic genitals.”

“Why don’t you channel your aggression into an actual aggressive act?” Marco wonders aloud, cutting off my bewildered repetition of what Ymir just called her own nethers. “Run a race. Have an arm-wrestling contest. Wrestle. But nicely!” he adds hastily.

“Jean’s too much of a wimp to do any of that,” Ymir sighs dismissively.

I shoot her a frown. “I can hold my own in an arm-wresting match.”

Ymir raises her eyebrows at me. “Oh? You could?”

Oh shit. “Uh, I mean …”

But Ymir has already gently pushed Marco off of her lap and is gesturing me over. With grim resignedness I unwrap my clustered hands and shuffle over, kicking myself for being so stupid and walking right into that. I toss the blanket at Marco (forgetting that he doesn’t know to catch it, and I have to snort and lift the blanket off a scandalized Marco’s head) and sit in the sand opposite Ymir, who’s sitting on the other side of the log. “Elbow down, Jimbles.”

“I know how to arm wrestle,” I mumble halfheartedly, so under my breath that it sounds like, “Knowhowta ermwerstle.”

Ymir readies her hand, and I join palms with her reluctantly. She squeezes my hand, grinding the knuckles in my hand together, and I yelp. “On three.”

“I think you’re going to lose, Jean,” Marco pipes up helpfully to my side.

“Wow,  _thanks.”_

“Me versus winner!”

“One, two-“ I tense up, locking my shoulder and leaning forward a bit. “Three!”

I don’t stand a chance. You’ve got to understand this. Ymir’s hand bears down on mine with unrelenting force; my weak resistance is as nothing to her, and the back of my hand hits bark almost instantly. “Ow,” I squeak, rubbing the back of my hand, as Ymir grins.

“I don’t think anyone here is all that surprised at what just happened.”

I make a “tch” noise, looking away gloomily. “Whatever.”

“Me next,” Marco says eagerly, placing his elbow on the log next to me and grinning at Ymir.

“Oh shit. Now  _here’s_ some competition,” Ymir says with a bit of doubt in her voice. “I’m going to be completely honest; I have no idea who’s going to win.”

“Marco, win,” I tell him.

“Thanks, Jean! That’s nice of you.”

“He’s only saying that because he wants me to lose,” Ymir says.

“Oh.” Marco narrows his eyes at me. “That’s  _less_  nice of you.”

“Enough chitchat. Let’s  _battle,”_ Ymir insists, and the siblings clasp hands with determined looks on their faces; they grin at each other across the log, unspoken familiarity flaring between them, and I feel a pang of something I don’t feel like describing.

My lull costs me the start of the pivotal match, and before I know it Ymir and Marco are arm-wrestling as hard as arms can wrestle. I almost think they haven’t started yet, since their hands haven’t moved; then I see Ymir mumbling curses under her breath, and their hands trembling, and I realize they’re doing it. By god, this is like watching titans clash. Their arms bulge as they strain against each other’s hands, completely even over the log, wavering just the tiniest bit in either direction for a few moments every few seconds, but each always regains their ground. Eventually Ymir yelps in dismay as their arms, shaking violently, begin to inexorably go down in a direction that does not favor her. She finally just gives up with an exasperated exhale, and Marco laughs in triumph as he lets up and taps her knuckles against the bark instead of slamming them down.

“I’m really glad I didn’t say I was going against the winner,” I say sagely, looking between them. “Any more and you’d break my little pencil arm in half.”

“God  _damn,”_ Ymir mutters, flopping her hand back and forth, curling and uncurling her arm. “That was  _hard._ I usually win! This isn’t fair; I’m older, damn it. I actually work out.”

Marco is working his arm similarly. “It’s okay, Ymir. You almost won.”

“Almost isn’t good enough! I demand a rematch, but not with you, because I need to nurse my wounded ego. Jean, elbow down.”

“God no! You’ll rip my arm off.”

“Ymir,” Marco says suddenly, and points skyward; it’s around that time when they should start their hunting game, and Ymir straightens up, shooting me a look that tells me this isn’t over. Great.

No, it  _is_ great. I did exactly, like, ten minutes of work today. The rest was walking Marco up to bask, my daily dose of pissing and moaning, and now this bullshit.

Their carefully executed hunting matches have continued every week (except for the one where Marco had just eaten his septi-whatever-annual giant raw meal; then he just passed out on the log as Ymir nabbed an opossum from the woods or something). Despite my ambition of actually going out and hunting  _with_ them, and getting something for myself, Ymir has yet to invite me into the dark yonder. Scorekeeper I remain.

The rules change; they make it fun for themselves. Sometimes they allow blood. Sometimes the system is based on the quantity, not quality, of their kills and the lengths they go to to beat each other are amazing (one memorable week consisted of Marco chancing upon a burrow full of sleeping checkered garter snakes; it was only a matter of digging them up and surrounding their frantic escape with his much larger snake body and carefully incapacitating each one before slithering back to me with the biggest shit-eating grin I’ve ever seen, a forest of limp snakes dangling from his hands. Ymir flipped out). Sometimes they have specific rounds, like the deer-only day, where both came back with one of their own and the winner was declared Ymir because she brought a buck with an impressive rack of antlers, while Marco could only score a doe. First of all, the fact that deer are numerous enough around here that both Ymir and Marco could get one for their own in such a limited amount of time speaks volumes either of their skill or of the untouched forests north of Trost. Sometimes it dawns on me that when I actually get around to hunting, I’ll have the best hunting ground to choose from.

Ymir attempts to cheat almost every damn day. Marco’s more than eager enough to help me make sure Ymir’s on the right track, but she rarely is. She’s wily, though. When they have animal-specific rounds, Ymir will partake of a species that looks similar and try to pass them off as the same. When they have bloodless rounds, Ymir will even prick her thumb a bit to prove to me it’s her blood, not that of the game. I barely notice; the only thing that exposes her is Marco’s years with her, and he’s wised up to her nuances. He’s always eager to tip me off when she’s up to something. His tongue can somehow tell the difference between her blood and animal blood, and every time he comes back with something he flicks his tongue out real quick to make sure we’re all right. I’m pretty sure I remember human blood being one of his triggers, but I guess not.

I contemplate these as well. Coiled rope? Is that supposed to be his snake body? I mean, dude, if your own body freaks you out like that, I’m not really sure what to tell you. What’s so bad about that? Burned meat? Did he watch something or someone get burned to a crisp? Heartbeats- he friggin’ showed me  _both_ his heartbeats in one fell swoop; how’s he supposed to freak out over heartbeats? Sawing through wood? I realize the noise is grating and makes you want to grind your teeth, but …

It’s not my business anyway. Doesn’t really matter. I’ve seen Marco freak out exactly  _once,_ and that was when he went berserk on me. To be honest, he seems just fine. Pretty decently functional, as best as one can be when they can probably trip forty people at once. I sliced my finger once when whittling and Marco didn’t bat an eye. I told Ymir once I was going to gauge her eyes out and Marco cracked a smile. Was Ymir messing with me when she told me all that stuff? I mean, images and sounds that can trigger a panic attack in her own brother don’t sound like something she should be willing to joke around about.

But she is careful, and I notice almost as soon as the idea of her not being serious occurs to me. Every time I sit through a deluge of Marco’s curiosity, Ymir hovers close, her presence oppressive, her eyes boring through my back as she monitors us silently. When it’s my turn for tag (which it always is) and I go after Marco (who suddenly gets a whole lot easier to tag, considering he’s got a solid thirty feet of potentially tag-able body that usually can’t slither entirely out of my grasp in time), Ymir is never far away, as though fearing I might suddenly turn on her brother. Goof she may be in play and hardass she is didactically, but there are some instances where she just makes my spine crawl.

v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v

It took my parents quite some convincing to let me stay  _overnight_ in the woods, in the company of the scandalously indecent  _Ymir._ My dad hemmed and hawed and fluttered around me in distress, insisting I couldn’t possibly subject myself to the wild outdoors (as if I haven’t been doing this for like two months), while my mother made her displeasure and disapproval clear. They were only appeased when I insisted this is an  _awesome_ way to get me out of the house, and I’ll need the experience for when I actually start hunting (whenever that is is up to FUCKING YMIR!). They didn’t actually say yes until they sat me down for another lecture about why Ymir can’t be trusted, why I need a knife on me at all times, and why I can’t under any circumstances offer Ymir any money. All right.

Come the full moon, which happens to be a brisk Wednesday evening, Ymir collects me around mid-afternoon, giving me plenty of time to regret ever setting eyes on her. The ghoulish howling has not yet started, but it will once the sun sets, and I’m in no mood to be caught out in the middle of the forest in the cold night by whatever the hell is out there.

Ymir knocks on the table as I’m just tossing the last of the leftover bread into a sack for Reiner to collect. He tends to either grind the bread we haven’t sold into meal to use in other dishes or go out and give it to the homeless. Big heart in that guy. I’m pretty sure the birds in this town know him by now as the guy who gives out free bread, because I’ve seen them land on his very hands, I swear to god.

I jump a foot in the air at the noise. “‘Sup,” I say in a strangled voice, trying to cover that up.

“‘Sup, jumpy,” Ymir says, observing me. She’s got a rounded rucksack on her back, along with a metal pot, sealed with twine, strapped to the top of it. Judging by the way the pot doesn’t bounce when she moves, it must be filled with something weighing it down. “All packed up for tonight?”

“Yup,” I affirm, nudging my foot toward a bag I threw together this morning. I think I forgot undergarments, but whatever, I always do. My musty dick can survive.

We head out as soon as I’m done locking up. Reiner was completely fine with me leaving early, as he was out hunting somewhere to the east for a few days and knew I could handle myself for most of the day. I’m glad he trusted me enough to put me in charge officially; it’s not like I don’t know how to handle everything at once, though,  considering Reiner’s constantly out of commission acting like a lovesick puppy.

The sun casts bands of cold gold and icy purple across the sky as it sinks to our left, and the hardiest bugs have prematurely begun their dusk chorus as we stroll through town. I wonder if people are talking by now about me and Ymir; I mean, it’s not like I’ll be able to know. Who am I gonna ask? I don’t know what they’d even say. Oh look, there goes Ymir, abducting Jean yet again to go hunt or torture or fuck in the woods or something.

Ew. Oh god. Oooh that’s such a nasty thought.

I wonder if Mikasa has heard such rumors.

Damn, has it been a while since I’ve wondered over Mikasa. Who can blame me, though? I’m on speaking terms with the naga.  _Totally_ felt him up. That would make anyone forget.

Trost is illuminated by weaker and weaker sunlight by the time we get to the northern forest, and the crunch of our footsteps through the scraggly underbrush joins the insects’ voices. It’s nearly deafening; our breath puffs out in white clouds around our mouths as we trek. Walking through the woods doesn’t even raise my heartbeat anymore.

“So what exactly are we doing tonight?” I ask.

Ymir shrugs. “Umm … whatever we feel like. I’ll make dinner first and then we’ll probably fuck around for a while before crashing. That’s what we always do.”

I get the feeling I’ll be third-wheeling all night. Why did I agree to this.

“Listen, Marco’s going to have a deer ready for me to cook for dinner by the time we get there,” Ymir tells me, “but Marco can’t be around for me skinning and preparing it, all right? So I’m going to ask you to go entertain him for a while. Preferably somewhere upwind.”

“Entertain him?” All right. I can do that. Better than third-wheeling.

Ymir grimaces with something on the border of apologetic and grim. “You understand. It’s gonna take a few hours, so maybe have him show you the waterfall or something. It’s pretty; you’d like it. It’s not frozen over yet by now, though-“

“Okay, but, like, what about all that noise that happens at night?” I just blurt out hastily, cutting her off. “You know, the noises. The howling and shit.”

She shoots me a grin calm enough to make me just dread this whole thing  _more._ “Oh, you’ll see.”

“That can’t seriously be the only answer you’re about to give me.”

“But it is. Just trust me, okay? I think at this point I deserve a little trust. I’ve saved your life- what, three times by now?”

“Once. And it was  _still_ your fault!”

“I didn’t ask you to fuckin’ follow me into the wilderness! I was worried Marco would feel horribly guilty, plus all the blood would’ve fucked him up-“

“Whoa, fuck-  _excuse_ me, are you implying you cared more about how Marco felt about killing me than  _me being fucking killed?”_

“That came out wrong. I’m serious,” she insists, choking back laughter as I lurch threateningly toward her; we both break out in a run at the same time, me yelling threats between every breath behind her every footstep as she cackles defiantly through the brush, her voice echoing between the trees, down every ravine, rustling through every wayward, homeless leaf.

Marco is already there when we burst into the clearing, my desire for revenge long since assuaged (especially considering I wasn’t really serious in the first place). He reclines upon the fallen tree, waiting for us; at the sight of us he straights, the curves of his body segmented and shining as they adjust and glide to lift his human half up. A pale shape behind him distracts me, hanging eerily in the air, until I realize it’s the stiff carcass of a buck; Marco has perched it by the antlers in such a way that it dangles from the crotch of a branch on the tree line, its legs jutting out at morbid angles, its eyes wide and black and blank.

He flashes us a broad smile immediately, oblivious to the cause of our enthusiastic arrival but partaking in the easy energy all the same. “I thought you would stay home, Jean,” he says to me.

“Nah, nah. I agreed,” I pant, hands on my hips, my lungs practically freezing as I regain my breath.

Marco glides down from the log and looks like he might want to hug me, but refrains. “I got your deer, Ymir,” he announces, jerking his head behind him to indicate his catch. “He was grazing along the bottom of the hill. I landed right on him.”

“Be careful when you do that,” Ymir chides with a concerned hiss in her voice, walking forth to rustle his hair. “Those antlers’ll hurt if you get poked- ‘specially with how fast you strike.”

“I was careful. Wrapped him up first and then broke his neck. It took a while.”

“Then you’ll be rewarded with a nice dinner,” Ymir croons, taking his face in her hands and wrestling him back and forth gently; he snickers, nose wrinkling as he grins, and moves to shove her off, but never quite gets there. “Go babysit Jean, all right? Is the waterfall frozen over?”

“No, not yet. Nothing’s frozen yet.”

“Bet you Jean’s fingers are. All right, in that case, just look around for herbs for me. Thyme and lettuce, if you can still find any living ones. Let’s dazzle our guest. I’ll whistle when the food is done, all right? Go on, get.”

Marco glides closer to me and I offer my hand out of habit; he shakes it happily, then turns and informs Ymir, “His fingers are like icicles.” His hand doesn’t feel cold or warm, but something neutral. Of course, this must mean he’s just as frigid as I am, only his chill extends throughout his whole body. God, I can’t imagine my entire body frosty and white and numb. He looks peppy, too. This should be illegal.

Ymir nudges my ass with her boot. “I’d like to have dinner before sundown, so get a move on.”  She stoops down on one knee, bringing the pot on her back to rest on the ground in front of her. She opens it to reveal several lumpy potatoes, an onion or two, a cluster of green string beans, jars of water and flour and oil, and a small circular metal pan. As she starts pulling random vegetables out of the pot, I remember with a jolt that I’ve brought some of my own, and all but tear this big clump of carrots out of my bag and into her face.

She jumps. “What, are you trying to stab me?” Then she laughs as she sees what I’m waving in front of her by the leafy greens. “You remembered.”

“I don’t mess around when it comes to carrots.”

“I’ll use them sparingly; Marco doesn’t like carrots too much.”

I turn to Marco. “What the fuck.”

Marco looks quickly between Ymir and me. “Do I have to defend myself, or is this a situation where my opinion is allowed to be different than Jean’s?”

I guffaw; Ymir shoots me an exasperated look. “You’re allowed to dislike carrots.”

“Oh, good. I also hate onions, Ymir, why do you have-“

“No reason!”

I squint. “Hey, uh, I hate onions too-“

“For god’s sake, get out of my sight!” Ymir yowls, giving us a shove on the shoulder each, supplementing with kicks and threatening advances when Marco and I are slow to wander away. We leave her muttering about how “we won’t taste the onions anyway” and  “they’ll melt in your damn mouth” and people need to “stop being so damn picky, so help me god.”

Marco slithers ahead like he knows where he’s going, so I follow him. “Don’t you just wanna kill her sometimes?”

“No.”

“You’re no fun.”

Were this a normal Wednesday, Ymir and I would be just about heading home after a nice game of Ymir cheating and Marco winning. Having only just arrived and knowing I’m staying here until tomorrow feels dark and off-kilter, and oddly exhilarating at the same time, like staying in a schoolhouse in the evening, or lingering too long after dinner at a friend’s house. In short, it feels like a sleepover, which is fortunate considering it fucking is one.

The forest has been leeched, desiccated of color; tree trunks are gray, the dirt is gray, even the thick leaved carpet crunching beneath my feet and under Marco’s belly has become monochrome and dead in every way. Gone are the vivid colors that entranced Marco so. The brush and brambles, so thick and entangling and annoying to penetrate at any other time of the year, have been run down to thin hard stems, strewn across the earth like exhausted twine, leaving plenty of room to freely roam. It’s walking through a frigid living graveyard.

Marco’s hands ghost over the ground before he properly sets his palms down with each step, as though testing the earth for something sharp to hurt him, and his strides are light. Occasionally he rears up to rub his hands together, searching for warmth where there is none. “Where we headed?” I wonder aloud. My voice echoes without leaves to disperse the sound.

“Near my hill,” he replies. “Thyme grows in sandy places, and it’s very sandy around there. We have to look for some so that Ymir’s stew tastes better. Do you know what thyme is?”

I squint. I vaguely remember my dad potting such a plant on our kitchen windowsill. “It’s a spice, right? Something like that.”

“It’s an herb! Ymir uses it in food all the time and it tastes really good to chew. I like peppermint better, but that doesn’t grow anymore because it’s too cold and dry and peppermint likes to grow by streams. I saved some leaves, though. They’re in a jar by my bed if you want to try one.”

I refrain from making a comment about him inviting me to his bed. “I’ll pass.”

“Do you have peppermint in Trost?” he asks me, looking up over his shoulder. Here we go again. “O-Or any other herbs? Do you grow plants?”

“Well, sure, we’ve got gardens and shit. My dad’s got a vegetable garden out back. There are trees growing everywhere too. Grass.”

“Trees? Do you make treehouses? My cousin Ilse built a whole treehouse by herself! It was sooo high up- she never let me go up, though. Ymir always said the ladder was too dangerous.” His eyes glaze over as he reminisces. “But I once climbed it in the middle of the night, because I think I was mad at her for something … but I couldn’t get down, so I was stuck there all night and after Ymir got me down she was mad at me all day-“

He continues in this manner, plying me with questions about Trost’s botanical side as I try my best to answer. I’ve never had to contemplate the proportion of maples to oaks, but now after some good hard thinking and mental image recollection I’m pretty sure we have around four maples to every oak in the residential district and a higher amount of oaks around the marketplace. I feel like sharing this fact. Might put it on the notice board for people to completely ignore.

It’s gradual enough that the change goes almost unnoticed, but Marco speaks a little bit differently. He rambles less, uses more contractions. He didn’t know what, “I’ll pass,” meant a couple of weeks ago, and other phrases like that, but now he takes it in stride. His careful stares have gotten more fleeting and less like a necessity, as though he’s finally gotten over needing to watch me at all times. I guess Ymir was right.

Once we’ve reached the base of Marco’s mountain (hill, I guess), he straightens up and turns to me. An unwelcome breeze carries frostbitten air, seeping through my sleeves and chilling my skin bone dry. I hunch my arms close to stay the cold. “Do you know what thyme looks like?” he asks. “It’s not that common right now so we both should look.”

“Uh …” I dimly bring to mind a pale green plant with purple flowers and dense clusters of small leaves. “Vaguely.”

He squints. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure I know what thyme looks like,” I growl. I’m not. “If it’s so hard to find, we should split up. Cover more ground that way.” Maybe I’ll find somewhere in the sun to hunker down and curl up in a ball while Marco does all the work. My hands and toes are tingly and numb to the point of physical pain. I  _hate_ getting like this. I should’ve worn thicker socks. I’m not even wearing gloves.

He tilts his head, considering, so I clarify, “Meaning we can look more places in the same amount of time. We can get more for Ymir. Get it?”

“Oh, yes, of course,” he affirms, nodding. “She’ll be happy about that.”

“Probably having a monologue about how I’m finally a productive, sophisticated member of society.”

Here his lips curl up in a smirk, his eyes go half-lidded, and he drawls, “You’re finally useful, Jimbles.”

He beams when I burst into a short cackle. “How do you  _stand_  her after so long? God!”

“I’m very patient, which you don’t seem at all.”

“Wish I had that. Where do I even start looking?”

He scratches the back of his head, screwing his mouth up. “Start looking in places with sand. Thyme likes dry soil and lots of sun. If you don’t see other plants around you’ll usually find thyme somewhere close… .”

“Got it,” I say decisively, turning toward the western side of the hill, but Marco catches my arm.

“Are you going that way? You need to be careful.”

“I know not to bother any bears or anything. Wait, Ymir said there were none around here-“

“No, not the bears. Bears  _don’t_ live here. If you go too far, there’s a bog over there where water is still flowing. Don’t go near it.”

His voice is uncharacteristically grave. “Got it,” I repeat more slowly.

“You know what a bog is, right?” Marco asks at the blank expression on my face.

“Of course I know what a bog is,” I insist, pulling my arm free of his grip. I need to move. I need to get my blood moving through my aching feet again, and standing here on frozen soil isn’t helping. I stagger away, trying not to trip when I can’t feel anything but numbness below my ankles. I raise an arm to the side to wave to Marco. “I’ll meet you back here when I find shit.”

A glance over my shoulder tells me Marco has disappeared, and I suck in a shuddering, icy breath, jamming my hands into my armpits in an attempt to restore feeling to them and hunching over like an old man as I crunch through the loose, bleached dirt and dead grass. Winter sucks. My fingers are white and stiff as bone, and my ears must be too, because guess who has the worst preservation instinct ever and  _shaves his hair around his ears_ and robs them of shelter from the cold. I should seriously consider letting my hair grow out when autumn begins, fashion be damned.

I lied, all right? Well, technically I didn’t. I  _know_ what a bog is; I just don’t know what it  _looks like._ It’s really wet land, right? Pools of stagnant water? I’ve heard men and women tell tales of people setting one misguided foot into the mud and getting slowly swallowed whole by the muck in a matter of minutes. As long as I’ve got solid ground, I mean, I’ll be fine. If a bog looks noteworthy enough to have a name all to itself, separate from a forest, it must be visibly noticeable. I’ll know it when I see it.

I realize I should probably start actually looking for this damn plant, so I set my eyes earthward to rove. Nothing but yellow grass and other dead bullshit. I’ve wandered into that area I once saw Ymir wake Marco up in, the sandy place dotted with the odd low-hanging tree and lots of boulders. I aim to walk in sunny patches, plotting a course through soil struck by sun that does little more to warm it than illuminate it, both to keep an eye out for dry-loving thyme and soak up what miserable rays I can to defrost myself. I check over my shoulder every once in a while to make sure the hill is within sight; if I wander too far I can always use that to orient myself.

“Fuck it’s cold. Fuck it’s cold,” I repeat over and over to myself in a miserly mutter, a ghost of a cloud floating up from my lips, barely able to be seen. I exhale deeply, my lungs drawing up in my chest, and smile a little bit. I used to pretend I was a fire-breathing griffin for a full year of blessed life when I was five. I’d scamper around on all fours and shit, demand to eat raw meat, run around flapping my arms like I was flying. When the air got cold I’d puff out my breath all the time and pretend it was smoke. People  _still_ bring it up, the damn assholes. I can’t help being an imaginative kid. Children are just small drunkards anyway.

Where the hell am I? Nowhere warm, that’s for fucking sure. The hill is still within sight, but this isn’t anywhere I’ve wandered before. I kick a stone along ahead of me for me to catch up to and kick again as I walk, but it bounces and skids out of my direct path, so I glare venomously at it and end up kicking along a new one.

I release one of my hands from under my arm and look at it, absentmindedly giving the stone another kick, and immediately regret it. The cold air stings as it returns to my bone-white skin, and I hiss in discomfort as I attempt to bend my fingers. I swear I can hear them audibly crackle as they slowly constrict. God damn. I haven’t had it this bad in a while. Normally I’m inside by the time the cold has this kind of effect on me, but nooo, I had to decide to be  _social._

I kick the rock especially hard at this last thought; it clatters away to my left, spinning in a blur as it takes to the air once, twice, three times, four-

No, not four. On its third descent it makes not a sound, and upon striking the ground falls deathly still. I slow a little, narrowing my eyes at it. Weird. Weird enough to warrant me trudging over and giving it a once-over. It’s embedded in moss growing along the root of a tree; a sharp end of it must’ve speared the softer surface and stuck there. I didn’t think moss lasted this long. Then again, I’ve heard Hanji rant at least twice about how moss is a plant set aside from other plants. Maybe they like winter. I don’t fucking know. Thyme likes sand. Whatever, plants. You do you. “I like warm campfires, you know that?” I ask the rock, my lips barely moving and voice rising hardly above a groaning whisper. “Bet you fuckin’ do too. Better than fuckin’ cold-ass  _moss._ You know I could’ve kept kicking you, but  _noooo.”_

It remains silent. I’m talking to a rock. “Fine. Glad we had this talk,” I mutter, rolling my eyes skyward- or at least I try to, but something catches my eye enough to halt its ascent.

The area before me is flat and covered in leaves, as per the norm. Fallen trees and branches rise and fall in crooked angles like gray tentacles; their surfaces are overrun by moss and sprinkles of fallen snow still clinging to their boughs, and branches snapped off by gravity or moving fauna. Grass that must’ve been long and lush in the summer now lie strewn about like thin, yellowed dead bodies, draped over wood and leaf indiscriminately. Brown arches of dead, decrepit brush curve over the ground and meet it at the base and tip of their stems. In other words, nothing new.

But what really catches my eye is not brown or gray, but red and green. There’s a cluster of garishly-colored plant life, so bright and colorful it looks almost fake, almost a hundred yards away from me or so. I cast an incredulous look at the trees around me, as though asking them what the hell is up, before trudging closer, my boots squelching with every step.

The sight before me gives me tremendous, incredulous pause. It seems to be an entire plant by itself, composed of fifty-foot-long deeply green stems, thicker around than my waist and heavily segmented with what look like bands every few feet, growing in a rosette formation and connecting at their bases. They fan out hovering slightly above the ground and form a big circle, some at a height taller than me and some nearly grazing the earth. And the fifteen or so feet at their very ends are the most bizarre things of nature I’ve ever seen; four dense rows of thin hairs, vividly red and longer each than my arm, bristle from the plant, and each hair is tipped by a bead of shiny fluid.

In the center of this giant circle of stalks is a massive, odd obstruction, bigger than a damn carriage, embedded in the bases of the stalks quite snugly. It looks like a giant walnut shell. Its russet surface is mottled and deeply craggy, shot through with broad stripes of white and covered in a faint layer of pale fuzz.

The thing is  _enormous,_ by far the largest plant I’ve ever seen, and dissonantly colorful _._ Something this … well, _alive_ should not be around this late in the year. This is ridiculous. What a fucking eyesore.

I look left and right, as if expecting someone to pipe up with an explanation. “The fuck are you?” I mumble, hovering a little closer to it. I have never heard of this kind of thing, and it frustrates me not knowing exactly what is growing in my valley. Maybe Marco knows what the hell it is; he must know these woods inside and out.

I weave a little closer, squinting through a tiny forest of red hairs, trying to get a good look at that weird big knot inside. The drops of fluid on the end of the weird leaf’s tendrils shine in the sunlight that filters down through the empty boughs above. After a moment of trepidation I let myself walk among them, stepping carefully over a particularly long- and low-growing leaf. I peer skeptically at another tentacle hovering around my waist. Weird-ass thing. I squat down and blink in surprise when I detect an odor surrounding it; it smells saccharinely sweet, almost to the point of rotten.

I tap the stiff, cool underside of the leaf, which is bare of tendrils, and watch it bob up and down. Curiously I reach forward and dab some of the liquid on a singular hair with the pad of my middle finger; immediately I regret it, as instead of the drop clinging to my finger and then rolling off like water should, it sticks thickly to my skin and stretches, bending the hair after it.

My face screws up in disgust - sure hope this shit isn’t poison. “Ewwww, what the fuck,” I hiss, wrenching my hand free; in my haste I swipe the fluid off of a few more hairs, dirtying my hand up more and rustling a bunch of them on accident.

Suddenly the leaf seizes; the entire thing snaps around and bends lengthwise in on itself, hairs curling inward in a messy, sticky wad. I freeze, arms bunched up to my chest, eyes wide. That plant just fucking  _moved._

Slowly it uncurls again, its red tendrils a bit of a mess from meshing together, until it reaches close to its former shape and position. Gobs of the sticky shit clump entire masses of the hairs together.

I thump back on my ass, propping myself up with my hands behind me. I sit there for a minute, head tipped upward a little bit as if asking the sky why the fuck this is happening to me. I’ve discovered a  _moving plant!_ A plant with reflexes! How fucking cool is that?

I shift up onto a crouching position again, mostly because my ass and hands were getting cold and damp as fuck, and hover next to the offending tendril, debating. My left hand hovers in front of me for a second, then clumsily swipes the air above the tentacle and jerks back to my chest as I wait, lips pursed and eyes wide, for the same reaction. Nothing. I do it again, waving my hand back and forth like a madman in the plant’s range before snapping it back. Emboldened, I dip my fingers lower, allowing it to brush against the bases of the red hairs.

Again the gigantic leaf freaks out; a small rush of air rustles my hair as the tendril folds in on itself with the swiftness of an energetically-closed book. A mad giggle escapes me as I watch the thing slowly unfurl, clearly disappointed it couldn’t nab me, like a kid that tried to catch the one tickling them. “The  _fuck,_ dude,” I say, laughing helplessly. I want to show this to people. What an odd fucking thing to find in the middle of the dead-ass woods. A plant is moving all by itself! So  _fast,_ too!

Sticking my tongue out, I sweep my hand across the stiff hairs and snicker as the plant once again bends backward. I can sympathize, plant; it’s like the reaction you have when someone tickles the back of your neck, and your spine pretty much snaps with the force of you cringing your head back.

I’m just cackling to myself like a child with a new toy and making ready to trigger the same reaction a fourth time when something moves out of the corner of my eye. I glance over, see nothing moving, and frown. Could’ve sworn I saw a shift that wasn’t just the wind.

Oh well. I hook my finger around the base of one of the tendrils and tug. No reaction. I drag my finger across a row of them and snort when it predictably bends. What’s the  _function_ of this kind of thing? What’s the purpose, other than to be random and ridiculous? I feel bad for any butterflies or bees that land on this massive thing.

Movement again.

A smile still on my face, I casually loll my head to the side, look away, then look again. The giant walnut is moving.

I shoot to my feet, all amusement drained from my face. I must look kind of offended. “What are you doing,” I demand.

The giant russet obstruction in the center of the rosette rises from its embedded position on a thick neck of solid lime stem, stockiest in the middle and flared thin out on the sides. Two neat rows of thin green hairs split the sphere around the middle; abruptly they rustle, then separate completely as the jaw unhinges. Its lips are dark red and ribbed as they curve into a pale green mouth, smooth and velvety in the way only plant flesh can be.

_Baba._

It stills like a statue, jaw gaping, then with a deep rustle every single one of its massive arms begin to move. They sway independent of the wind, arcing figure-eights through the air in greater and greater sweeps, in tandem like a team of dancers. Roving. Searching.

“Holy shit.” It’s around this time I realize this, all of this, was probably the worst idea ever. And standing here like an idiot  _among its arms_ is not the place to be.

It’s the same shit with the bog, I seethe as I scoot backwards, eyes locked on the head like I’m expecting it to lunge at me through its arms. I know what babas are, even down to the species; if someone would just  _tell me what the fuck the things look like,_ I would totally know to  _avoid the giant plant that can digest deer like it’s nothing-_ It’s probably a wandering blood baba, not like the damn knowledge will help me or anything, the kind that grows the very _biggest-_

I let out a childish little squeal as I lose my balance, sprawling flat on my back, the wind whooshing out of me; my head hits cold mud and  _of course I’m in a fucking bog, the moss, the squelching beneath my boots, it’s wet._ Joints twinging, I scoot backwards like a bug, my priority putting as much distance between the baba and myself-

Or at least I try to, for when I attempt to relocate my left foot it doesn’t budge. I fall on my elbows again with an, “Oof!” not expecting the sudden resistance, and try to bend my knees. One does; the other remains still. And it’s cold.

Pressure, slick and cool and steadily tightening, encloses my shin, and I look down. A thick band of plant leaf is wrapped tightly around my leg, from the very base of my foot to my knee. My pants are stained dark with that sticky fluid as the red tendrils press into my leg. My stomach plunges in a sickening swoop, the tips of my toes and fingers aching with nerves. I must’ve stepped right into range of a tentacle and  _it fucking got me._

I regret every decision I have ever made in my entire life.

“Ookay, this isn’t funny anymore,” I wheeze, grabbing my leg under my thigh and tugging hard; the plant’s grip is absolute, and my limb doesn’t give an inch. I swallow down my panic, an aching smile frozen on my face. “H-Hey. Let go now.  _Now.”_

The rustling quiets as the leaves cease their weaving, tips bobbing slightly from the momentum of their former movement. It’s almost unfair how dissonantly quiet and slow everything is; I hear birdsong, and I hear a slight breeze spreading stiff leaves all across the forest floor. I barely have a moment to wonder why the baba has grown still before realizing with a mental kick that it’s because it found what it was looking for.

The baba’s thick neck pivots; its head slowly swivels to fully face me, giving me an unwelcome view of its velvet gullet and massive fucking size and holy  _shit I am not going to die because I walked right up to a giant carnivorous plant._ I try to kick as violently as I can, but end up pushing the rest of my body backward instead; the arm’s grip refuses to let me budge in any direction.  _The baba looks like it’s smiling._ Ignoring the freezing earth, I dig my fingers into stiff soil, struggling to scramble away, my free heel and the palms of my hands carving deep, clumsy trenches in the mud. “Stop, okay? Stop!” I yell at it. “Okay, I-I get it, I shouldn’t have fucked with your fucking leaf, now let f-fucking go of me-“

 _Snap._ I freeze, heart pounding so hard it hurts, like it’s going to gallop right out of my chest, until I realize the noise was not me.  _Snap._ I dig my free heel into the plant around my leg, the plant that is slowly, oh so slowly squeezing me tighter, making my toes throb with compressed blood, my skin tight with burning pressure.  _Snap._ I am jerked forward, dragged, my clothes scraping and coming away muddy, and my heart just about leaps out of my mouth.  _Snap._ A hysterical rush of air giggles out of me as I dig my stiff, nerveless fingers between the baba’s bent bristles and my pants, arms shaking as I try to pry even an inch of space between us.

With how much this thing is tightening around my shin I wouldn’t be surprised if the next snap is my bone; the baba's strength is absolute, and my fingernails can’t even break its skin. The loudest  _snap_ yet makes me jump and whimper. It jolts me, and it takes me a while to focus on what’s happening; the segments wrapping around the arm’s length every few feet are popping, breaking, separating. Then as I watch in horrified wonder as four of them suddenly bend into harsh right angles, tugging me closer to the center of the rosette, I realize they are not segments, but joints.

I feel cold mud crawl under the hems of my coat and shirt and smear my bare back. “Oh  _fuck_  no,” I declare, giving the plant a defiant kick.  _“Fuck_ right off! Let fucking go, I swear to god- h-hey, Marco? Marco!  _Marco, help!”_

The baba’s jaw opens wider, and suddenly the arm’s joints closest to the center dig into the ground, bending the rest upward. “Hhh _ooooooooly_ shit  _stop,”_ I yell, frantic, as my legs are lifted bodily from the earth, tipping me back to lean heavily on my shoulders.  _“Marco!_  No no nononono-“

With a creaking heave and lancing pain my left knee takes all of my weight as I am dragged forward and right up, dangling me inches above the ground upside-down. A strangled shout of terror falls out of me as all the blood rushes to my head. Utterly disoriented, I writhe, lunging for the ground above me in mortal struggle, my fingers scrabbling for purchase and coming away muddy.

I am going to die because I  _walked right up to a baba._ “LET ME GO, holy sh- I don’t even taste g-good,  _swear to god, swear to god!”_ I heave, my words throaty and clumsy and blurred together by my stiff tongue. “MARCO! MARCO, HELP!  _Don’t,_ nonono-“

With a creak the baba’s arm slowly, inexorably swivels in place, dangling me over more light-dappled drops of its sweet poison, across them, down to the bare bases of their stems, and-

The baba’s mouth is gaping open in anticipation of my arrival, and the noise that tears out of me would be absolutely embarrassing in any other situation. “HOLY SHIT,” I scream, my hands trying to reach up and grab the plant nearly breaking my leg with its grip, my gaze transfixed above me. It has no throat; whatever gets dropped in there just sits there to  _rot,_ crushed and compressed by the thing’s massive jaws until there is nothing left to save. The red ribbing of its lips curve into its mouth; the ends of them are sharpened like smooth teeth. This is going to hurt. This is going to hurt.

“Stop, stop,  _stop,”_ I chant pointlessly, my voice warped and hoarse, as I am dangled  _directly above_ the baba’s waiting, massive jaws; I feel like I might puke, especially as I can feel blood returning to the meat of my shin, and I can feel my leg sliding in the arm’s loosening grip, rubbing against thick tendrils along the way.  _“Don’t-_ STOP! MARCO!  _MARCO, HELP!”_ I grapple for fistfuls of anything, anything of the arm I can reach, anything so I don’t drop right into that mouth, coiled to kick, a scream rising in my throat, my foot stiff and hooked to try and anchor myself on the arm that’s letting me go-

I don’t hear it until it’s nearly upon me. At first I think it’s something huge dragging slowly across the ground, or the sound of sand being shifted in someone’s hands, or the deep, melancholy sigh one hears in the depth of their chest and the back of their throat, somehow projected into the forest and amplified into something rather terrifying.

Something streaks below me and I flinch, a cry wrenched from my throat as I think the fall has begun, but I remain suspended. I look up in time to watch Marco barrel straight through the arms of the baba and  _slam_ into the plant’s neck; a crisp crunch sounds out, like stepping on thick fresh snow, like biting into a dense apple, and the baba’s frozen, gaping face creaks and tilts at a dangerous angle to the side; at its base an oozing seam has opened, a rupture born of impact.

The plant  _freaks out;_ every single one of its arms, big and small, begin shaking violently in every direction, half-curling and unraveling again. Marco’s body is long, too long, and as he straightens up to look at me his body zigzags; some leaves close to the ground sense his presence and snap their grips closed right around his snake body in several places. Marco opens his mouth, his chest tightens, and he utters this sound, this crawling, prying, sweeping noise, a hissing snarl magnified a thousandfold into a rippling roar. He dives down, bracing his hands in the mud, and whips his body violently back and forth; the force of his motion rips his body out of the baba’s grasp, leaving a few tendrils torn and ragged in his wake for good measure.

I watch upside-down, disoriented, my ankle aching from holding me in place, too weak to do anything more. Abruptly the plant gripping me lurches, and I swing around with a squeak. Marco’s tail is climbing it like an ivy stem, wrapping around it starting from his thin whiplike tail-tip, and the tendril, apparently without command from the still-twitching baba mouth, refrains from defending itself. Marco’s body encircles it and then, with a squeeze I can feel all the way up here and a mighty wrench, it  _snaps._

My knee lances pain all throughout my body, feels like, as half of the tendril quakes, then topples with the slow inevitability of a chopped-down tree, taking me right down with it. The world spins; my stomach and head swoop as the sky and the ground rearrange, and my leg gets twisted way too many angles it shouldn’t as gravity drags me one way and the baba’s grasp tethers me another. My body seizes up on instinct in an attempt to keep my leg from twisting right off my body until I hit the ground, and I lose everything for a few seconds: sound, sight, sensation.  _Breath._ Feels like my goddamn lungs get knocked right out.

Hands scrabbling at my ankle, and I look up in time, lights too bright and trees askew, to watch Marco just  _rip_ the tendril off of itself and bare my leg, strands of clear fluid still linking the two ends like sticky honey, and blood thunders through my shin again. I’m saying something, many somethings, but I can’t fathom what. Hands hooking under my armpits, hauling me to my feet, and energy the likes of which I’ve never felt before in my life courses through me like I just got struck by lightning. I don’t remember my feet hitting the ground, but they do, and I bolt like I’ve never bolted before.

It takes me a while to register that my knee is fucking  _killing_ me, and by the time I wobble and collapse right on the dry fucking ground in the freezing dirt I’m nowhere near where the fucking baba was. I hit the ground hard, rolling onto my side and panting, watching my breath fling brittle brown leaves away from my mouth. “Holy shit,” I manage to utter eventually. “Holy  _shit.”_

Something crawls over my ankle and I seize up with a breathy screech before realizing it’s Marco, circling around my legs to peer down at me. He’s saying something. What the fuck is he saying?

“Holy shit,” I tell him helpfully, reaching up to do god knows what, and he grabs my wrists.

“-y? Are you okay? Where does it hurt?”

“Wha?” I practically yell at him.

“Are you hurt?” he articulates, enunciating as though speaking to a child.

Oh yeah. Oh  _yeah_ I fucking am. My kneecap feels like it’s in the completely wrong place. I coil in on myself and grab my knee, grimacing in pain. “Holy shit,” I wheeze yet again.

“Please say something more than ‘holy shit’?”

“HOLY SHIT.”

“Jean-“

“THE FUCK?”

“That was-“

“THE FUCK WAS THAT?”

“A bab-“

“HOLY FUCKING SHIT!”

“Jean,  _stop,”_ Marco hisses.

 _“YOU_ STOP! HOLY  _SHIT!_ What the  _fuck_ just HAPPENED?” I howl, digging the back of my skull into the ground, staring skyward. “I just- I-“

“I don’t understand,” Marco insists over me. “I told you not to go near the bog; why did you ignore what I said?”

“I DON’T KNOW WHAT A FUCKING BOG IS!”

“But you said-“

“I  _lied,_ oh my god! I don’t know  _shit!”_

“I don’t understand why you would  _lie;_ I didn’t tell you there was a baba growing there because I didn’t want to scare you and make you stop looking for thyme-“

“I DON’T KNOW WHAT FUCKING THYME IS EITHER.”

“Why do you keep lying? That’s not helping anyone!”

I roll away from him, flopping onto my other side and just focusing on regaining my breath after sprinting and screeching at Marco like a banshee. Mud covers and streaks my fingers and clothes, and there’s a decent amount caked in my hair too. My knee feels fuckin’  _busted._ I don’t think I can stand, and even if I could I feel like I’d pass out; my temples pound, and my scalp itches with tingly numbness. There’s a cloud gathered in my brain and it’s hard as shit to concentrate on anything. I’m jittery. I want to do something. I want to run. I want to go home.

I almost just  _died._ Who the  _fuck_ walks right up to a baba and pokes it and expects not to die? Holy shit. A fucking idiot, that’s who. Words can’t describe what an idiot move that was. It’s like flicking a bear right in the fucking face. Who  _does_ that?

Babas aren’t all that common but everyone knows what they are. Gigantic carnivorous plants, possessing hypnotic colors and scents to entice local fauna before snapping them up and tossing them right into its waiting jaws so that they can oh-so-slowly dissolve. Wandering blood babas are the biggest they get, and that one was _huge._ They’ve been known to trap grown men. I looked right into its mouth.

I almost just  _died._

Marco just saved my life.

I turn my head sideways, looking straight up to the zenith of the sky. “Dude,” I choke. “Holy  _shit.”_

“Jean, please stop saying that, because I don’t know if you’re hurt and it’s freaking me out.”

“No no, g-god- gimme a second,” I finish with a weak whisper, focusing on deep breaths. What did Thomas always say when I got hurt when I was little? Scraped a patch of skin off my knee, found a tick digging into my arm? In through your nose, out through your mouth. In through your nose, out through your mouth.

“I, uh-“ I stop to clear my throat. “I-I didn’t know what they  _looked_ like. I mean, I know what they are, but I didn’t think it would look like that. I’ve never seen a baba.”

Marco hovers over my shoulder, an anxious expression on his face. Holy shit. He  _wrecked_ that plant.

Groaning like an old man I sit up, trying not to bend or straighten my knee any more than it already is, and sit there dumbly as my head swims. I should be used to near-death experiences by now, but my body’s telling me otherwise; my bones lie still with a tireless fatigue, my pulse pounds in my temples and fingertips, and my head feels uncharacteristically muggy. I scrape my fingers together stiffly, crumbling chunks of dried mud off my skin to bounce off my lap. At some point when I was freaking out Marco arranged his dark body in a circle around me like a pen, and I don’t notice until now. It makes me feel better. “S-Sorry I yelled,” I add.

“It’s all right. I’m just glad you’re alive,” he sighs. “Why didn’t you listen to me when I said not to go to the bog? I wasn’t lying or anything.”

“OhnoIknow,” I let out all in one shaky breath. “I don’t know. I can’t think right now, just-  _dude._ Dude, you just saved my fuckin’ life.”

“I know.”

“D-Dude! Thank you!”

“You’re welcome. Do you hurt anywhere?”

“Holy shit!”

“Oh not this again,” Marco mutters to himself, along with something starting with a P, as though addressing someone whose name begins with P. “Jean, please concentrate. Are you hurt anywhere?”

“My knee fuckin’ hurts,” I pant. “You just saved my life.”

“I did.”

“You just saved my life.”

“Yes.”

“Oh my god.”

The circle of Marco’s body tightens a little around me. If I reached out I could touch him. “Are you bleeding? Are you hurt anywhere else?”

“No, shit, I’m not bleeding, I swear, don’t worry,” I say quickly, waving my hand. “Dude, I kind of want to hug you.”

“Oh.” Marco perks up. “Okay! Is this a normal reaction?”

“No, I don’t actually, it’s just-“ (Marco makes a tiny disappointed noise) “-you just- you just ran in and- you fucked it up. You fucked that plant up. Dude, you’re  _strong.”_

“Yes, I am. Jean, you don’t sound very coherent. I think you need to lie down for a while.”

“Yes, sir, Doctor Grisha.”

“Who? I’m not a doctor. My name is Marco. You know this already.”

I start giggling. Marco sighs, plunking himself down by my side, resting heavily on his own back. He rests his hand on my arm, the picture of wretched concern and a little bit of exasperation. “You’re acting like you hit your head. Have you hit your head? Can I touch your head?”

When I nod he sweeps a hand through my hair, face tense as though expecting my skull to be caved in, and relaxes, apparently finding no such injury. “You’re not bleeding anywhere. Maybe you just got knocked up.”

I start giggling harder, and even  _harder_  when he gives me a questioning look because he clearly doesn’t know what that means. “Sorry, I’m- getting ‘knocked up’ means I got laid.”

Marco squints. “It’s slang?”

“Yeah.”

“So I just said- oh. No, that’s not what I meant. I meant maybe you got your head hit when you fell. I’m sorry, I tried to catch you.”

“’S fine. I don’t … honestly remember much of what just happened. Where the fuck are we?”

Marco regards me with real, aching concern, wan and pale, and I realize his hands are trembling; I feel a rush of fondness for his scaly ass. “You just got attacked by a baba and when I got you down you ran and I followed.” His voice is quiet and a little disbelieving. Yeah, I know, right, dude? I can’t believe-

“I almost just died because I walked right up to a baba.”

Marco scoffs slightly and slumps, folding his arms along his own back and resting his head on his elbow, watching me. “You, uh … you’re an idiot.”

“Dude … I  _am,_ aren’t I?”

“Yup.”

“I’ll tell you one thing. I am a  _cold_ idiot.” As though to back me up a deep shudder runs through my body, rattling through my legs and chest and jaw. I draw my hands up to my neck, jamming them by my pulse, ignoring the stark burn of their icy temperature. “Can we get out of here?”

“Of course.” Marco rises, his circle of body unraveling a bit to accommodate, then seems to think better of it and returns to my sitting height. “If your knee hurts, does that mean you can’t walk?”

I straighten my knee out to answer him and immediately wince. Holy shit, it feels like my kneecap just crawled an inch or two down my shin. Definitely not an action I want to consider reenacting, I decide, grimacing and whining like a little bitch. “I’m not too sure.  _Fuck._ Help me up?”

I meant for Marco to give me a hand, you know, to prop me up as I stagger to my feet. Marco’s method is to circle around behind me, hook his hands under my armpits again, and lift me bodily up quite easily; I wobble my arms and leg around a bit, keeping my bum leg bent at the same angle to avoid hurting it, and settle down uneasily on one foot, grabbing Marco’s arm to keep me standing. “ _Or_  you could just pick me up.”

“Was I not supposed to do that?”

“No no, I’m just bitching. All right, let me just … uh.” Now I’ve got to see if I can actually walk. My heart sinks at the thought of trekking all the way from where we are now back to the clearing. At the very least it’s going to be a less than comfortable experience.

Marco’s hands linger on my ribs as I lean precariously to my left over my busted knee, the ground tilting below me, and I swat him away to preserve a little bit of dignified autonomy. Wincing I let my leg fall straight, grunting quietly in discomfort, and let my toes rest upon the hard earth. “Think I’m good,” I say after a pause; my knee is pressing a constant pain through my whole leg, but it doesn’t feel like something I can’t manage. “Okay! Guess I’m okay.”

I speak too soon, for as soon as I shift my weight completely to my left leg to take a step with my right pain lances down my shin, and the thing wobbles and gives out completely. I almost buckle to the ground before Marco swoops forward and roughly grabs me, hooking his arms under my arm and around my waist. “Jean?”

“Okay not okay,” I wheeze, grabbing his arms to keep from falling. “Shit. Shit!”

“Does your leg hurt when you put weight on it? You’re not putting weight on it,” Marco observes glumly, peering down at my stiffly retracted limb, keeping his hands on me to keep me up. Now he’s feeling  _me_ up. How to feel about this. I realize I’m hot, Marco, but don’t get too handsy. Practice restraint.

“Yeup. Fuck. I can’t walk,” I sigh. I’m extremely not in the mood to sit here on my ass in the rapidly darkening cold forest waiting for Ymir to make god know’s what for dinner.

“That’s all right. I’ll carry you,” Marco says immediately, and shifts his body as though to get closer and lift me. I stumble back a little, arms up, forgetting for a moment that I’m lamer than a hobbled horse and almost falling on my ass again. Stupid knee. Stupid baba. Stupid near-death experiences I keep having.

“Whoa, okay, give me a warning first.” I’m not sure how I feel about Marco carrying me anywhere.

“I did. I said I’d carry you.”

“I’m not gonna be too heavy?”

Marco and I stare at each other as I remember he just probably uprooted an entire fucking baba. “Never mind. That was a stupid question.”

Marco leans back; his smooth ivory-colored belly flashes orange as the setting sun catches it with tree-filtered rays. It looks thinner than the rest of his body, like his snake neck is flattened out toward the sides, like someone passed over it a few times with a rolling pin. How odd. “How do people carry people?” He pauses, pursing his lips in thought. “I’ve never carried Ymir. She used to carry me around on her back when I was smaller, and I would wrap my body around her waist. I’m too heavy for that now.”

“Yeah, you can give me a piggyback ride.”

“You won’t fall off?”

“Nah, people, like, wrap their legs around your waist. I won’t fall off. Just, uh- turn around and get closer to the ground.”

Marco does as I say, keeping his head twisted around so that he’s looking at me for approval, his snake neck sliding backwards to lower his human torso to the ground, until his head is at about my shoulder level. Optimal positioning for me to climb on his back, of course, if I don’t catch sight of his bumpy spine. If he gives me a piggyback ride, my crotch is gonna be right up against that shit. I barely use my dick, but I’d rather not spend an indeterminable amount of time with Marco’s abnormally pronounced spinal cord digging into it. “Uh …”

Marco looks at me questioningly, somehow managing to tilt his head when it’s twisted around to look at me from the opposite direction. “What do you need?”

“Yeah, uh, this isn’t gonna work. You’ve got to carry me some other way. No offense, but I am not rubbing my dick on your weird back.”

Marco looks scandalized. “I mean, your spine is all sticking out,” I point out. “So it would be really uncomfortable if my weight was on that. Namely my dick,” I finish with a huff.

“Can I turn around?”

“Go nuts.”

Marco turns around and rises a bit, confused by my response but apparently deciding to save it for later. “So … no piggyback ride?”

“No piggyback ride,” I confirm, momentarily losing my balance and flailing like a loser before I regain some semblance of dignity and poise, standing here with my leg cocked like a sleeping bird. I rub my chin, looking Marco up and down and considering him. I guess the only alternative now is for him to carry me suspended in his arms. The thought brings me disquiet; I don’t mind him helping me and I don’t doubt his strength, but I don’t prefer the lack of autonomy that position affords me. At least if I was on his back I’d be clinging to him of my own accord.

I sigh. I’m too much of a lazy bastard to choose walking over getting carried like a prince. I almost just died. I _deserve_ to get carried. I gesture Marco closer, lifting my arm up for his shoulder in anticipation. “You’ve got to pick me up. One arm under my shoulders and the other under my knees. Please, god, don’t drop me.”

“I won’t drop you,” Marco assures quietly, gliding closer; cautiously at first, like he’s afraid of getting it wrong, he scoops me up off the ground in one smooth motion. I give a little squeak; we’re largely the same size (ignoring the fact that he’s a gigantic naga) and even though I bend, most of my legs and my head are suspended in empty air with nothing to lean on unless I contort to the side to rest my cheek on his shoulder; my neck’s gonna get real sore real soon. I make myself relax. My knees are bent over his right hand at such an angle that takes the pressure off the pain, and it’s a great improvement from standing in place.

Marco peers down at me. “Am I picking you up correctly?”

“Yup,” I grunt. His skin isn’t as chilly as the air, and my own body heat quickly warms him right up, so as long as I sit still I’ll be golden. “We’re going back to Ymir, right?” I highly doubt Ymir has any medical training to speak of, but she’s the adult in charge, and so she must magically know what to do. Would she send me home if I honestly can’t walk? How would I  _get_ home? Marco can’t exactly cradle me up to my doorstep. What a hilarious sight that would be, though. Hi, Mom and Dad, guess who I happened to run into in the woods.

Marco pauses. “She hasn’t whistled for me yet. I was planning to bring you to my cave until she whistles. She’s not done making dinner yet.”

I lean my head back in annoyance. “Can’t we just go anyway? I don’t mind stickin’ around while she cooks or whatever. Unless she turns even bitchier when she cooks.”

“I can’t be around,” Marco says with resolution. “She’s … gut- ski- preparing the deer, and.” He doesn’t go on.

Oh. Oh shit. Organs. Marco can’t look at that shit. “Oh, fuck, you’re right,” I mumble. I sigh. “To the cave it is, then. Let’s hope Ymir hurries the fuck up, huh?”

“If she hurries it won’t  _taste_ good,” Marco protests fretfully, and with a little dip in height his snake body begins sliding across the ground as he slithers east. My good foot kicks up a little in alarm as I wobble in his arms, suddenly without a body to lean on at all; Marco had begun slithering and therefore tilted his body forward, but to keep me level he had to shift me away from his chest. He stops again, straightening up with a frown. “Hold on.” He starts slithering again, this time with a concentrated look on his face as he keeps his human torso strictly perpendicular to the ground. “This hurts my back.”

“Well, walking hurts my knee,” I retort.

Marco looks unimpressed. “I didn’t say that to start a competition with you.”

That is true. “Sorry,” I mutter.

“How did the baba get you?” Marco asks me as he slithers; he’s not weaving back and forth to the degree he usually does, but I still get the impression of rocking as we go. His long body trails after him, shining in certain patches that catch the light. Leaves rustle with a steady, unbroken hiss under his scaly belly as Marco carries me across the forest floor; wrapped around him in several places are glistening smears of that baba gel that had been on its red hairs from when he ripped himself free of them. How insanely strong is this guy, that he could tear himself free just like that? As I struggled fruitlessly like a moth caught in a spiderweb?

I bunch my lips up. “I … may or may  _not_ have, uh, investigated. It.”

“Explain what you mean by ‘investigated.’ Please.”

I let my head loll back, defeated. “I walked right up to it.”

“What do you mean? You’re joking, right? It isn’t a funny joke.”

“No, I literally … went up to it and poked it. A lot. Maybe.”

Marco actually stops, staring down at me. “Keep walkinggg,” I whine, heat flooding to my face. “I  _know.”_

Marco slowly starts moving again, still looking like he desperately needs me to clarify why curiosity justified me approaching a giant carnivore. “Usually,” Marco starts carefully, “usually, if something is bright, big, colorful, it means it’s dangerous.”

“Yeah, I don’t exactly live in the woods, pal. Bright and colorful just means bright and colorful to me.” I did already know this, to be honest (I live in a hunting village, come on) but I’m not about to admit that. Better to never know than to know and conveniently forget.

“Well, remember that for the future!” Marco insists brightly. “If you see something really pretty, it’s usually going to hurt you. That’s why trees are so dark and boring-colored; they’re not hurting anyone. Butterflies are poisonous. So are newts and some plants.  _Don’t_ eat them.” His eyebrows scrunch together. “But especially not the butterflies.”

He said that last bit with so much vitriol. “Marco. Have you eaten a poisonous butterfly?”

He looks far to the left, lips pursed. “I thought it would taste like candy.”

I guffaw, and he pouts. “Did you, like, die? Did it  _taste_  good, at least?”

“No, it was  _bitter!_ I swallowed it anyway and … puked later. It was bad,” he mumbles. “But I was little! And it was so pretty, all blue and green and translucent; I thought its wings were made of rock candy.  _You_ have no excuse, because you’re fifteen. You should know better.”

“All right, all  _right.”_ I let my neck go slack, and my head hangs at an uncomfortable angle for a few seconds before I lift it again. Sore neck it is, then. “You’re poisonous, but you’re all brown. You’re not colorful; you’re boring.”

“I’m not poisonous, I’m venomous. And I’m not boring! Hey- I have pretty patterns-”

“What’s the difference?”

“Poisonous is when something will kill you if you bite it. Venomous is when something will kill you if it bites _you.”_

“Don’t bite me.”

“I was not planning on it. You know, I  _might_ if you go near another dangerous thing.” He narrows his eyes down at me, but it’s got none of the seriousness it should, and I scoff.

“Just get it over with. I’ve had enough near-death experiences; just add it to the pile,” I grump under my breath, letting my head list dangerously close to his shoulder. Would it be weird if I rest my head on his shoulder? I thought my neck could last, but it really can’t, and it’s killing me at this point. I mean, are we cool enough for me to do that? Should I just do it and see what his reaction is?  _Will_ he have a reaction? Or would he just kind of accept it as something people do? I can always tell him my neck is sore.

I’m so absorbed in trying to puzzle this out as I stare blankly into space that I don’t notice his slithering has slowed, and he’s gazing down at me intently, his mouth downturned at the corners. I blink back up at him quizzically. His whole face is so dark, from his brown skin to his brown freckles to his large, liquid brown eyes, so large they seem almost unreal, like the fake placeholder marbles taxidermists use for their gory creations. With the golden sunlight shining on him at an angle nearly parallel to the ground, his irises look like marbled chocolate, shot through with honey, broken only by the ravenous black of his pupil. His freckles have held on late into the year because of his predilection for direct sunlight, but they’re not as vivid against his skin as they were when first we met; the tiny ink-drop ones are beginning to fade, while the splotchy ones have remained unaltered.

His lips part as he sucks in an uneven breath, as though gathering air and courage to say something, but it takes another few seconds for him to murmur, “Jean. Did I … ever apologize?”

“For wha?” I ask dumbly.

He’s stopped completely. He turns his gaze away, eyes flickering above my head, then to the side, then to the ground, and I realize he’s ashamed. “For almost hurting you,” he sighs. “For almost killing you, when we first met. I didn’t ever apologize to you for that. I didn’t say you did not deserve that.” He pauses. “I don’t want anyone to see me like that.”

I scrunch my eyebrows together. “Whoa, dude. You realize that was, like, two months ago, right?  _Over_  two months ago, actually. I’m pretty sure. It was the beginning of September. That is a  _long_ -ass time ago.” I wave my hands vaguely around before letting them fall to my stomach again.

Marco shakes his head. “Time,” he says with a strained voice, “doesn’t matter, doesn’t make it  _okay._ It _happened._ I’m sorry, Jean. I really am. Please believe me.” He swallows. “I do not look good like that.”

He’s refusing to look at me, eyes downcast instead of meeting mine. Look good? Look  _good?_ I remember with alarming, dissonant clarity my sheer  _indignation_  when Ymir ordered me to apologize to him for his outburst, all those long weeks ago.  _I_  was the one wronged, wasn’t I? I felt a total loss of control and it rattled me. I was the victim and he was the perpetrator.

But I wonder now if this isn’t just a matter of guilt for doing something like that to me, but of indignity on Marco’s part for existing in such a manner in the first place. He doesn’t want to look good, but  _good. “I know I look like a monster,”_ he’d said to me. _“I know. I look like a freak and I shouldn’t be like this.”_ He doesn’t want to be that clawed and fanged creature; he wants to be this, right now, and he wants me to see him like that. Maybe we  _both_ lost control at the same time, suffered the same injustice. Both victims.

It makes sense to me. I mean, it’s how  _I_ would feel, wouldn’t I?

“Hey, listen,” I say gruffly. “I know, like, I complain a lot about being in danger, but to be honest, I just like complaining. Ymir already told me it’s not your fault when you go all crazy. I know you can’t control that shit when it happens.”

Marco peeks uncertainly at me. “I can control it a little, if I can feel it coming, Pr- but … once I get swal- once it starts, I just can’t do anything about it.”

“Yeah! So you can’t control it. Marco, I really don’t blame you. I mean, if some snotty kid snuck onto  _my_ property, I’d beat his ass too.”

Marco scoffs, a little noise that might be the beginning of a laugh. “‘Beating your ass’ isn’t at all what would happen if I get my hands on you when I am berserk,” he mumbles.

“Then it’s a good thing I’m a fast motherfucker,” I say wryly. “Look, you’re a … a pretty shy guy, and you’re, well, bad at talking - don’t look at me like that, you’re getting better! - so I get why I scared you so much at first. You scared  _me_  at first. A lot. Now, if you’d  _intentionally_  come barreling after me like a runaway bull, then we’d have some serious problems.”

Marco resumes slithering, slowly at first, still looking at me with steadily regaining comfort. “I am getting better at talking? I  _am?”_

“Yeah, I suppose,” I grunt, finally giving up and letting my head rest cautiously on his shoulder, the tightness in my neck too burning to bear any longer; the bare skin of his shoulder chills my face, but within seconds it begins to heat up. “You’re still pretty awkward, but that can’t be helped. Or at least, not this fast.”

Marco’s arms shift, and at first I fear he’s reacting negatively to my head on his shoulder, and I prepare to move my head away, but he’s just drawing me a little closer to his chest with a small hum. “You are so  _warm._ You feel so nice.”

I let my head stay there, then. “Yep. Definitely can’t be helped.”

I have no idea where we’re headed but I trust Marco to get us there. Marco does not attempt to engage me in conversation further, apparently all questioned-out, and we fall into a comfortable silence. I spend most of the time staring into space, getting stiffly comfortable in the position I’m in and trying not to freeze my cheek on Marco’s shoulder like your tongue would on an icicle. I did that once. It  _burned._

At some point I peek around, unfamiliar with the area we’ve entered. The ground slopes in dark waves between shallow ravines and smooth hilltops, barely high enough to be called hills, and Marco’s carrying me along the rise of one, his shiny body cutting a flat path in the fiery leaves below us. Portions of the slope bare rocky stratifications, creating sheer drops in certain places. As Marco ascends over the zenith of the hill, we’re confronted with a high wall, almost thirty feet or so, of cliff face across a shallow ravine, heavily shelved and layered, composed of gray stone dripping with tenacious moss. At the base of this cliff is the devouring mouth of a cave, shaped like a near-perfect oval on its side. Marco heads straight for it. The ground slopes sharply upward as we approach; thick, gnarled tree roots arc across the hard, rocky soil before the entrance like wooden lightning. The tree they belong to is a massive maple high up on the top of the cliff, tilted precariously over the edge but holding strong; its roots cascade down the rock face, dipping on and out of grooves and crevices, before disappearing underground at our level.

“Is this your cave?”

Marco nods. “Don’t tell anyone.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

I look around, calculating the position of the sun with the time of the day and year, and deduce the mouth of the cave faces east with a little northward tilt. We must’ve circled around the base of Marco’s hill to the area northeast of it. No one in Trost has ever been here before, I can guarantee. It gets me a little excited.

The inside is far too dark for me to see, as the sun is in the completely wrong place to illuminate the cave. The choppy sandstone ceiling’s only a few feet above Marco’s head, but he goes in with practiced ease, looking down to ask me, “Where should I put you down?”

I have no idea what’s in his cave; I can only make out vague shapes along the walls before the interior is completely blacked out. “Uh, here, I guess,” I blurt out, deciding to play it safe near the entrance. Marco nods and lifts in height a little, upper half swaying precariously as he pulls his snake body entirely into a big clump beneath us, its coils sliding among each other in sinuous bundles, then lowers me down right on the last ten feet of his tail. Oh my god, I’m  _sitting_  on him. Doesn’t this hurt? Keeping my knee attentively bent, I wriggle until my ass isn’t pressing down on any of his body and instead lands on the very  _very_  cold rock floor, stiffly letting my lower back rest against what I’m guessing is the base of his tai- wait a second, where’s his ass? Is this his ass? Am I sitting on Marco’s snake ass right now? Well, isn’t this a big step forward for our relationship. You feel up a guy once and suddenly he saves your life and you’re riding him.

“This is where you live?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t have a  _door.”_

“Uh,” Marco says behind me, and I look up; he hovers at my shoulder, looking perplexed. “What am I supposed to do now?”

“What do you mean?”

“W-Well, aren’t there … customs when someone else enters your house?”

“This isn’t exactly a house, Marco.”

“But it’s where I live!”

“Okay, okay, uh … I dunno, offer me a drink? Amuse me? Be hosp- Oh.” I trail off as Marco perks up and whips around, slithering the rest of his body further into the cave, where the darkness devours him; I see and feel his snake body stop moving suddenly, as his human half has apparently reached its destination, and I hear what sounds like the clinking of stone on stone, and then Marco reappears with his arms overflowing with something. He then unceremoniously dumps this big pile of fucking  _rocks_  in my lap without a single word.

“Uh, a’right.” I blink down at this bullshit as Marco then places a glass jar of water next to my knee and brings a thick loop of his own body from around the middle portion to rest his arms on, looking up at me with delighted expectation. “Listen, Marco, when I said ‘amuse me’, I didn’t mean you just throw your belongings at-  _holy shit what the fuck is this?”_ I ask breathlessly, my attention diverted to a particular rock that landed on my thigh; it’s a semicircular structure, with the outside normal gray rock and the inside clustered with some sort of purple crystal. “What the fuck? This is awesome.”

“It’s an amethyst geode,” Marco informs me, picking it from my hands and turning it over. “It looks like a normal rock on the outside, but if you cut it open you find gems! I didn’t find this myself, I’ve always had it, but Ymir and I brought it with us. She got it when she was born and she gave it to me. Isn’t it pretty?”

“Yeah, shit! I’m gonna steal it.”

“What? No!”

“I’m kidding, relax. Oooh, lookit these,” I breathe, picking through the selection before me. My interest is officially bought. I  _love_  shit like this; even though realistically I’ll never get around to doing it, I love scrutinizing the different textures things can have in case I want to draw it. I’ll ignore the social oddity for now. I hold up a pinkish, vaguely cloudy rock. “What’s this.”

“Rose quartz. That one’s a little bit of jasper. I have this book that has pictures of different rocks and stuff and it’s fun looking for rocks to identify them. Almost everything around here is granite, but if you go down to the water you can find sea glass and things like that!”

I nod along, not knowing what he’s talking about. My whole body feels suddenly leaden, and my knee throbs dully with pain. I’m so glad to be sitting down right now. I lean back a little more heavily on Marco’s back, finding it surprisingly soft and comfortable. I’m gonna fall asleep so fast tonight, no joke. I hope Marco’s bed has plenty of blankets; his cave is clearly not closed to the elements.

My fingers brush against something abnormally smooth and thin, so I grasp it and bring it up to my face. It’s a rock, but not one I’ve ever seen the likes of before. It’s extremely thin, like someone took a potato peeler to a stone and saved one of its shavings, slightly curved and shaped like a very rounded triangle, and smoother than my own skin. Its back is creamy and subtly striped with gray ridges, and the inside curve is snow-white. On the underside of the obtuse angle of the triangle is another thin flap of rock, like it forms a tiny cave.

I turn it over in my hands before my eyes, trying to make sense of it, before giving it up and holding it up to Marco. “What kind of rock is this?”

“Oh, that’s not a rock, Jean,” Marco says. “That’s a seashell.”

“What’s a seashell? Is that, like … what is that?”

Marco frowns. “It’s a seashell,” he repeats slowly. “Clamshell. I found it on the beach. It isn’t the most interesting one there is, I know, but I liked how it looked so I kept it.”

“I mean, is it like some kind of rock? Wait, I thought it was called a seashell,” I add in confusion at the other word he said. The only sound those two have in common is “shell” and this looks nothing like a turtle or snail shell.

“It’s a seashell, but a shell from a clam, so it’s also a clamshell,” Marco says patiently.

“But … is it a rock?”

“No, it’s a shell. You know, the things you find on the beach near the ocean?”

I look the the side, then back at him. “What’s an ocean?”

Marco chuckles nervously, then falls silent. “The ocean, Jean.” At my blank face he presses, “You know … the _ocean.”_

“No, seriously. What’s an ocean?”

He gazes at me askance. “The ocean.”

“Okay, you keep saying that like I’m gonna magically know what it means, but it’s really not changing the fact that I have no idea what that is.”

“It’s the ocean!” Marco insists. “The sea, the beach, the big blue! With the boats and whales?”

“What?”

Marco shakes his head as though gathering his thoughts, holding his outstretched hands in front of him, exactly like the pose Ymir adopts when she’s trying to school me. “I’m sorry, I think you have a different word for it. An ocean is the biggest body of water there is. You know, when you reach the end of the land, you reach the ocean.”

The ornate portrait I saw once in the trader’s tent flashes behind my eyes. “Ooooh, that thing!”

“Yeah!” Marco agrees delightedly.

“Yeah, those don’t exist.”

The glee drains from Marco’s face. “Wait, what? Yes it does.”

I scoff, shaking my head. “There’s no  _way_  a lake could ever get that big. All that water in one place? That’s- it’s impossible.”

“Jean, the ocean is less than fifty miles away from us right now.”

“Uh … no?”

“Uh, yes. Does this mean you’ve never  _seen_  the ocean, Jean? But Trost is so close to the coastline! It’s due northeast!”

I shrug helplessly, spreading my arms out. “Dude, no one goes up there because  _you_  are due north. No one goes out more than fifteen or so miles away from Trost anyway. If there was a huge old lake up there, we’d know. There would be, I don’t know, signs.”

“But there  _are_  signs! Don’t you smell the salt sometimes? And see the seagulls circling overhead in the summer?”

“Is that what those white birds are called? Oh, they’re just divine omens … or something. Of our doom. I don’t know, a lot of things we can’t explain, but that doesn’t mean it’s because there’s this huge-ass bowl of water somewhere to the north of us. Someone would’ve drank it all. What does that even have to do with salt, anyway?”

“Ocean water is salt water. You can’t drink salt water. Jean, Jinae was a port town. It was right on the edge of the ocean. I know it exists. I, Ymir and I, we went swimming in it all the time.”

I fall silent, disquieted a tiny bit by this personal admission. “Well … whatever, I thought it was a myth.”

“But  _Jean,”_  Marco breathes, wriggling closer to me, “this means you’ve never  _seen_ it.”

“Uh, no.”

“I go there sometimes! Late summer, when it’s warm and the water is warm. All three of us should go so you can see it!”

That much water doesn’t quite register in my head. “Yeah … maybe.” I squint at the thing in my hands. “So what’s this?”

“A clam is an animal that lives in two of those,” Marco says patiently, his voice brimming with didactic enthusiasm, plucking the shell from my hands and digging into the pile of rocks to withdraw from it another, similarly shaped shell, though it’s a little bigger and more brown. He holds them together so that the ridged sides are facing outward. “It looks like a little white blob, but it lives in these two shells. When it dies, the shells break apart and get washed up on the sand, which is where I got these!”

“How do you know all this?”

“I read about it, and I used to live right next to the ocean too. When we go to the beach we can get more seashells so you can see more- wait. Wait, Jean, how did you not know the coast was so near? Does that mean …  _no one_ in Trost knows that the coast is so near?”

I shrug, pursing my lips. “Not as far as I know. I mean, it’s kind of … make believe, so no one really takes it seriously?”

“But now you know it isn’t make believe, right?”

“… Right.” Still doubting fuckin’ hard, but he’ll monologue if I let him know that.

“Does no one know at all?” Marco asks in bewildered fascination. “Not even from books? Wait, Ymir said no one reads in Trost, right-“

“People read in Trost,” I interrupt loudly. “Just not as often as you do. It doesn’t make us stupid, it just makes us people who  _don’t really read.”_

I let this stew with him for a moment, and then he says, “But if you don’t read, how do you know things?”

“Since when does reading give you all the knowledge you need? Word of mouth, gossip, experience, I don’t know. It’s all the same. It doesn’t make you smarter.”

“But how? What if you forget what someone told you? If it’s in a book you can always read it again.”

“You just don’t forget, then. I bet I know lots of stuff you don’t.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Things specific to Trost, I suppose. Information about hunting, tactics, harvesting methods … things we don’t need to record on paper, things we can just share and know. All we  _need_ to know to live.”

“But a book would give me knowledge about things that don’t focus on where I live,” he points out in gentle protest. “You clearly know nothing about Jinae; what if I gave you a book that told you everything about it? That would make me more knowledgable than you.”

“But why? Why would I need it? Do you have a book all about Trost? Because I don’t need one; I can just look and remember. I’m sure I know more about hunting than you do - even more about that baba than you do.”

“Oh?”

I turn and squint at him, considering. “Hmm … what season do deer shed their velvet?”

Marco’s eyes flick up to the ceiling for a moment as he considers. “Right before it starts getting colder. I can smell the blood from their antlers.”

“What species lives here?”

“What?”

“Species of deer, I mean. What species of deer lives in these woods?”

“Mule?”

“Whitetail. How do you tell the difference between a male and a female whitetail? Not-“ I say hurriedly when I see Marco open his mouth immediately. “-counting the antlers.”

Marco screws his face up, knowing the answer he gives is unacceptable. “Scent?”

“We don’t all have snake tongues, dummy. The shape of a doe’s head is more rounded. So what can I use the antlers for if I kill a buck? Or the guts, the bladder, the hide? What about if the antlers are too small, just stumps?”

Marco looks visibly disquieted, and at first my heart skips a terrified beat when I realize I just let my words get ahead of me and reminded him of the fact that organs exist (and I called him a dummy, oh my god), but when he utters a genuinely thoughtful hum I let myself relax a little. “Food, I would think.”

“Nope. Well, yes, you can. But there are so many uses, dude! You can make catgut a-and buttons and different kinds of weapons or tan the hide or make shoes. You can turn a deer into a damn wardrobe. Did you know any of that?”

“No, I didn’t,” Marco says readily, leaning towards me in fascination, “but you do. So you must read _something.”_

“Nope.”

“Nope?”

“We don’t read to know what we need to, we just … tell each other. Simple as that. It doesn’t mean we’re any less intelligent than you guys are.”

“I’m liking Trost more and more,” Marco breathes, lacing his hands together on his scaly back and resting his chin on them to gaze at me more comfortably.

Pleased, I hum, “Here’s an easier one. What attacked me just now?”

“A baba,” Marco says with confidence.

“What  _kind_  of baba?”

At this he visibly falters. “There’s more than one kind? I never read that.”

“They live here, we encounter them, so we  _have_ to know about them or else.” I clear my throat before continuing confidently, “There’s four species: a dry one, a marine one, and an ivy, kind of creeping vine little thing. The fourth kind is the one that just attacked me. It’s called a wandering blood baba,  _so_ called,” I babble with emphasis, enjoying the feeling of knowing more than Marco or Ymir for once and  _especially_  enjoying the way Marco’s not taking any of this personally; instead he leans closer with every word I speak, drinking it all in, “for its  _ten-den-cy_ to move over long periods of  _time,_ because its roots fan out and, like, look for water, y’know? Babas need lots of water because they’re so huge and colorful, and they’ve got to maintain those drops of goo on their leaves. So, like, the roots look for water, and when they find the highest amount of water in a certain direction or whatever, those roots curl up and pull on the whole plant, and the roots on the other side loosen up and die so there’s nothing holding the thing back from moving, so it literally just … drags itself after water. Constantly.” I nod sagely, unable to keep the shit-eating grin off my face. “Oh, and the ‘blood’ part comes from the fact that it crushes stuff in its jaws so blood tends to leak out, so they usually have lots of flies all over them and shit. That- That could’ve been me. Have I mentioned that you saved my life like an hour ago, not even, and that you’re awesome? You’re awesome, by the way. Thanks for that. Because that shit would’ve happened to me, and-“

Marco rests a cold hand on the back of my hand. “You are  _lovely_  like this,” he states giddily. “Keep talking. You’re so enthusiastic.”

I freeze with my mouth open, staring in surprise, all at his touch and his words and his naked earnest honesty, plain in the wideness of his eyes and the interest in his voice and the ease of the lift of his grin.

He coerces me into talking to him all the time, but … I think half of it is devouring everything I say, and the other half is listening to  _me_  speak.

No one likes the sound of my voice that much, do they?

But this is no one normal anyway.

So I keep talking.

v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v

It takes over an hour for Ymir to whistle for us to come back for dinner after we settled down in the cave, and by that time the throbbing in my knee has gone down considerably, though not enough that Marco feels comfortable letting me walk, and so in his arms I am cradled once again. We spent all that time talking; I managed to wheedle out of Marco the full story of how he’d eaten a poisonous butterfly (he was really craving candy one day, he claims), but as I was laughing at his expense I choked on my spit and coughed for about twenty minutes, so we wound up even on that front.

“Remember, Marco,” I stress to him as we can see Ymir puttering around through the thinning trees, “I definitely did  _not_  walk right up to a baba. I just got nabbed by it as I was walking by. Right?”

“Right,” Marco says, and I give him a thumbs up. He stops suddenly at the edge of the tree line, flicking his tongue out at a rapid pace; when I’m this close to his face I can see the way his throat and the underside of his jaw undulate as his tongue moves within, and I can actually hear a faint flapping noise; I suppress a snicker at the sound and instead look around for the reason we paused. Marco’s eyes are wide and steadily roving back and forth, his huge pupils turning his eyes nearly all black as he studies the clearing. Eventually he creeps in, going slow. “Hi, Ymir!” he calls across the grass to his sister.

She turns, then looks back at the makeshift campfire she’s made, then turns and squints again, curling her lip in confusion at us. “Uh … why’re you carrying him like that.”

“I got my ankle messed up,” I sigh at the same time Marco goes, “He walked up to a baba.”

“He  _what?”_

“MARCO.”

Marco fights to keep his grin down as he nods, stopping before Ymir. “He walked right up to it and poked it.”

I clumsily punch Marco in the shoulder multiple times, hollering, “Marco you  _shit!”_

“Ow- ow ow  _ow Jean I’m gonna drop you,”_  he protests, hunching up his shoulder under my onslaught.

After Marco gets me to stop punching him Ymir has him set me gently down on the ground against the log as he fills her in on the gist of what happened, particularly with emphasis on why exactly my leg is busted, as I grumble; he settles down next to me directly after, leaning against the log like I am and gazing at me with concern, lacing his hands together over his stomach. I wince as I try to find the most comfortable position possible for my knee as Ymir kneels down beside me, rolling up the leg of my pants to examine the damage. There’s nothing visibly wrong, no blood or displaced bone, but it still twinges like a bitch. Ymir straightens out my leg until I yelp, which is admittedly a much greater improvement in scope compared to the last time I tried to move it, then sets it down again and goes completely still, staring right at me, her face utterly devoid of emotion. “Don’t you start,” I warn.

“So,” she starts.  _“So._  You’re walking in the woods and you see this- this  _gigantic_  colorful plant-“

I sigh exasperatedly. “I’d never  _seen one before,_ I’d just heard  _descriptions of it_  and I  _didn’t make the connection-“_

“-in the middle of the fuckin’ dead-ass woods, with tentacles and a  _mouth-“_

Marco fails to hide a snort; I make a face at him before whining at Ymir, “It didn’t have the mouth open when I first saw it-“

“-and your first instinct is to go up to it and  _poke it?”_

“I am not a very sensible person sometimes. I have moments-“ Marco chuckles and I turn to him, repeating with emphasis,  _“-moments!_ Where sometimes I can make some, uh, some pretty dumb decisions-“

“If Marco hadn’t heard you yelling for help, you would’ve died, Jim.”

“Yeah, I know! Marco fucked that thing up, it was awesome!” I elbow Marco in the ribs. “Thank you, by the way.”

“That is the fifth time he’s thanked me,” Marco informs his sister with something like smugness. “Is there, um … a relationship between how many times someone thanks someone with- with how grateful they are?”

“Sort of. It’s complicated,” Ymir says dismissively, dragging her bag over and retrieving from it a gray shirt, which she grips tightly with her hands and tears from the hem a wide rectangular strip. “I was gonna wear this tomorrow, but I’ll just … I dunno, take my top off when I sleep and re-wear the shirt I’m wearing now or something. I call the fuzzy blanket.”

“Not the blue one-“

“No, yes, I mean that one. I call it.”

“Aww, I was going to give it to Jean because it’s his first sleepover!”

“Well, Jean’s not sleeping shirtless in the middle of November.” She tugs on the strip of cloth, making sure it’s sturdy enough or something, and then winds it around my stretched knee, wrapping it tightly and securely right where it feels weirdest. “Just try not to put too much weight on it, all right? It should feel better in a while- but, I mean, if it doesn’t, get to Eren’s dad and remember I tried my best.” She whacks my thigh. “So you almost got eaten today. How do ya feel?”

“Delirious and fucking  _famished,”_  I answer honestly. “Did you finish dinner?”

Marco’s tongue flits out, its flapping comically audible. “She finished dinner.”

I peer over Ymir’s shoulder. She’s dug a shallow stone-encircled pit in the ground around four feet from the middle of the log in which a fire dully flickers; over it is a metal grid that holds both the covered pot Ymir brought tonight, headily steaming and emitting a very appetizing aroma, and a small rectangular pan, upon which sizzle thin strips of browned meat. The deer corpse is nowhere to be found, its remnants apparently either over that fire or disposed of elsewhere. “You put the carrots in, right?”

“Yes, relax, I put your damn carrots in-“

“Good. I like ‘em nice and  _mush-ehhh._ Is it done? Are we eating?”

“Yeesh, relax,” Ymir scoffs, walking on her knees through the sand to her campfire; she lifts the lid of the pot to stir a wide wooden spoon through its contents, humming disinterestedly. “You’re so goddamn hyper, you’d think you didn’t almost just die like an hour ago.”

“I know, that’s why I’m hyper! I think if I calm down it’ll catch up to me and I’ll start freaking out, to be honest, so, uh, let’s keep making jokes, please? Did I mention your brother saved my  _fucking life?_ Holy shit, right?”

“Six,” Marco hums beside me; he’s leaning back against the log quite comfortably, his head tilted back and his eyes closed. I settle my elbows on the log, knee still awkwardly bent, and glance between him and the weak light hitting us between the trees, realizing he’s trying to bask in whatever sunlight we’ve got left. His fingers are still laced together over his lower stomach. I stare at them for a while, then at the sun, then back at his hands- oh my god. Oh my  _god._

“Wait a fuckin’ minute,” I mutter. “Dude, you’re …”

Marco’s right eye peeks open to peer at me. “Hm?”

“You’re, like, you’re fuckin’  _naked.”_

He stares at me, unamused; Ymir makes a choking noise over at the fire. “Nice observation, dumbass.”

“No, I’m serious! He’s in the nude!” I wave my arms out like this is the third coming of Maria. “This is public indecency right here!”

Marco now looks between us with a little alarm. “Wait, Ymir, am I doing something wrong?”

“Baby, Jean’s just disappointed he can’t find your dick.”

“He  _is?”_

“Ymir!”

Ymir throws her head back and laughs in an ugly manner. “Come eat, munchkins.” She picks up from the ground two bowls, into which she spoons hearty portions of chunky stew; my stomach yowls obnoxiously from the smell of cooked meat and broth. I hope she made enough for extra helpings. She kicks sand into the fire under the pot, dousing it, then adds two spoons to the bowls and waddles back over to us on her knees, handing us both the food and snorting when I try to scarf down a bite immediately and burn my tongue with a yelp.

“Jean, it’s hot, you’ll burn yourself if you try to eat it so soon,” Marco warns, as if I haven’t burned myself already. He blows the steam from the top of his portion and mixes it around, smiling at Ymir. “Thank you.”

“It’s not gonna be as amazing as I want it to be,” Ymir sighs, spooning herself her own portion, “because when I sent my boys out to get me some herbs  _someone_  decided to go and  _get eaten-“_

I stir my spoon around in the chunky concoction before me, watching much larger than bite-sized bits of food swirl around, griping, “Shove that spoon up your vagina.”

“No, it’s too hot,” Marco protests, and I almost choke. “Also, I’m right here.”

“Shaddup and tell me how good my cooking is.”

“Ruh- _lax,_  I haven’t even taken a bite yet because you boiled it all to  _shit-“_

“It’s  _delicious,_ Ymir,” Marco says with emphasis. “Just like it is every time you cook. Jean just hasn’t tasted it yet.”

I let a bit of the broth pool in my spoon and blow on it lightly and, when I deem it cool enough, take a sip.  _Whoa._ If only the broth tastes this good, I need the rest of the stew as soon as possible. I somehow manage to fit big chunks each of venison, potato, and carrot on my spoon and toss them in my mouth, sucking in a big breath after them when I promptly burn the shit out of myself. But once the heat subsides, holy COW. I don’t even mind the onions. “How’d you cook the meat?” I demand, my mouth still full. Attractive.

“Brown it in the bottom of the pot with pepper and some other shit, then add everything else. I rolled the chunks in flour beforehand; it keeps the moisture in, y’know, so it’s juicier. Is begging for my recipe your way of complimenting me?”

“You’re a good cook,” I admit, too occupied in stuffing my mouth further. Appeased, Ymir and Marco start talking about something as I tune them out and wolf down my dinner with gusto, fueled by the good food or the exhilaration of my terrifying day- nono, don’t think about it, you’ll start freaking out. Too soon I’m scraping my spoon on the bottom of the bowl for the last scraps of broth I can get, and I look up eagerly for seconds, my spoon dangling from my mouth. I frown in confusion at Marco beside me; he’s set his bowl, half-eaten, on a spot of level sand beside him and is ignoring it in favor of talking to Ymir. How is he not starving? I elbow him and nod at his bowl. “Are you gonna eat that?”

He shakes his head. “I’m not hungry anymore.”

 _“What?_  You barely ate anything!”

“Remember he doesn’t eat as much as us,” Ymir calls over, but I keep looking at him like he’s nuts.

“You’re crazy, dude,” I mutter, snatching his bowl and stirring it around. Still hot,  _yes._  I take two bites before choking on my spoon as I think of something far too late, and I turn to Marco with wide eyes. “Oh shit, am I gonna be poisoned? ‘C-Cause of your poison spit or whatever? The venom? Because this is your bowl.”

“I didn’t … put venom in the food, Jean, I don’t need to do that if it’s already cooked,” Marco replies, with some audible confusion.

“So, like … I’m safe?”

“Yes, I mean- my spit isn’t venomous, the venom is venomous. From the- my fangs.”

“So, just to really clarify, I  _am_  safe to eat this?”

 _“Yes,_ god, your listening skills are atrocious,” Ymir sighs. “Hurry up and eat so we can get to the fun part; I’ve got a lot of shit I wanna to yell about.”

“Wh’fun par?” I ask through a mouth stuffed with carrots. Marco apparently ate around them because he doesn’t like them and I’m glad, because I goddamn love mushy carrots.

“Finish eating and you’ll see.”

“Are you going to yell about Niles Dok again?” Marco asks Ymir curiously.

I glance between them in confusion when she nods vigorously, exasperation in her rolling eyes and sighing growl. “Fucking  _asshole_  never leaves me alone.”

I finish off Marco’s bowl and toss it back in the sand, ignoring Ymir’s admonishment for throwing her shit around. “What’re you guys talking about?”

“Talkin’ ‘bout freaking Trost out, son. C’mon, let me clean this up and we’ll take a hike.”

“Wh- a hike? But it’s so cold! And my knee is busted to shit!”

“Does it still hurt that bad?” Ymir asks, coming over and scooping up our bowls and stacking them with her own. I bend my knee experimentally, waiting for the lancing pain to resurge, but no such reaction occurs; instead it’s faintly sore, like I slept on it wrong, but feels functional. I flail my way into a squatting position, leaning on the log to straighten up; beside me Marco shoots up, his hands flying up to hover before me at the ready.

“Do you need help?” he demands in distress.

I wave him off, fully standing and wiggling my toes. “Nah, I’m good.” With trepidation I lean my weight to the right and find my knee shaky but supportive. Awesome! Ymir’s wrapping skills can heal all wounds!

“Oh, so you can stand?” Ymir observes, picking up her pot by the handles and balancing it easily up to her hip; the pan is lain across the top, the strips of meat disappeared. Greedy bastard must’ve eaten them all. “Good. When I get back we’re taking a little walk.”

“Okay, uh … your definition of a ‘little walk’ is probably neither little nor a walk,” I say slowly.

“It’s not far, Jean!” Marco assures me brightly. “It’s just to the west a mile or two- and, well … we do go up some cliffs for a while-“

“Oh my god it’s like midnight, guys,” I groan, gesturing at the last sliver of sun only just sinking below the mountains, therefore not midnight. “I almost died like six times today and we  _just ate._  We’re gonna get  _cramps.”_

“I’m not, because I didn’t eat as much as either of you.”

“Wow, good for you, you naked mole rat.”

“Hey, hey, it’ll be worth it!” Ymir yells, kicking more dirt to smother the still-glowing embers of her fire. “You’ll be let in on a little secret only Marco and I know that no one in Trost does-“

“Oh, you mean the fact that the naga is a tiny little sixteen-year-old who runs around the forest naked?”

“I can’t run! And I’m BIG!”

“-and I bet it’ll ease a bit of your anxiety on full moons, okay? Just trust me, wimp. No one’s gonna die from a bit of late-night exercise.”

“Why tempt fate?” I protest weakly, but Ymir has already turned her back.

“I’ve gotta wash these so we don’t attract raccoons or some shit - like that  _one time,”_  she calls over her shoulder, “but be ready by the time I get back. I’ll show you something no one but us has ever seen before.”

v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v

Whatever this is, it better be made of solid fucking ivory.

I like to present myself as universally capable in all tasks great and small, but I don’t make it subtle about how exhausted and lazy I am the whole way to wherever. Actually, I bitch and moan the entire time, through the darkened forest and its silent silvery-gray denizens looming tall through the night, the ground liquid black beneath our feet, protesting with wooden snaps and leafy crunches as we step on all sorts of noisy things; crickets sing their reedy songs from all directions, the sound bouncing all around us and crowding in our ears like a nighttime gospel. The crisp air is chillier than ever with the sun gone, and it worms its way through our clothes, chilling us to the bone. My knee troubles me little, only really alarming me when I step on something wrong and I feel my leg wobbling weakly for a few scary moments before I take my next step.

The other two walk a little before me, talking in night-muffled voices about something inane and unrelated to my current frigid, tired misery, their steps (and slithering) unhindered by fatigue, though Marco seems more muted than previous, maybe because it’s colder and it’s affecting him.

At some point, after an undue stretch of time, the ground starts sloping up and up, but it’s too dark to be able to tell which mountain we appear to be climbing. Eventually we hit vertical cliff, but this apparently isn’t enough to deter us yet, for Ymir hunts around in the dark until she finds what she’s looking for; a moderately safe-looking path upward through the cliffs, leading who knows where. Luckily for us the ground is bathed in moonlight, uninterrupted by clouds; otherwise I have no idea how the hell we’d get anywhere.

Then we climbed it.

It was horrible. I almost died.

Marco was the only one helping me up as Ymir deliberately kicked rocks after her to bounce against my head. I’m going to throw her off a cliff.

When I finally clamber onto level ground, hands grasping cold grass, gasping like an old man, Marco releases me and, when I wave him off, slithers over to Ymir, who paces impatiently as she waits for me. We’ve climbed to a grass-covered rock shelf, big as a field, set into the side of a heavily forested mountain; it’s far too dark to make out where we are in relation to Trost or Marco’s hill, but I can see the hulking black masses of high outcrops on either side of us that run down the mountain in jagged twists and bends in tandem, as they they’re the aftermath of some ancient river and the shelf nestles between them.

“Well?” Ymir asks expectantly, coming over to haul me to my feet.

“Well what? What am I supposed to be seeing here? It’s dark as shit. It’s  _nighttime,”_ I gripe.

“Well, you just haven’t experienced the magic yet. Watch this.”

And with that Ymir strides to the very edge of the cliff, takes a deep breath, leans forward and yells:

“HEY, TROST!  _SUCK MY CLIT!”_

Okay.

There is no way no one heard that. The valley is huge, but voices can travel damn far, especially on such a silent night from a distance like that; I catch the echoes of her declaration rebounding down until it fades out. If someone’s walking around in Trost they might just catch it.

“So … where was the magic in that?” I wonder aloud, but Ymir isn’t done.

“YOUR OBSESSION WITH HARVESTING IS GETTING PRETTY GODDAMN OLD!” she rants, pacing back and forth, stamping, arms waving, lips curved in a tight smile even as she hollers. “SOONER OR LATER THAT SYSTEM IS GONNA EAT ITSELF! YOUR ARCHITECTURE IS BORING AND YOUR EDUCATION  _SUCKS!”_

I turn to Marco and ask, “Is she serious?” but he’s just grinning as he watches his sister like this is normal. I have the worst taste in friends.

“YOUR FESTIVALS ARE GODDAMN BORING AND YOUR FINE DINING IS ANYTHING  _BUT THAT!”_ Ymir howls. “AND YOUR POLICE FORCE IS EVEN WORSE - QUIT ASKING ME IF I WANNA JOIN!”

At this point Marco suddenly leaves my side to streak up next to his sister, cup his hands around his mouth, and yell, “I DON’T HAVE A PLACE TO JUDGE BUT HIIIIII!”

“What the fuck are you guys doing?” I squeak uselessly behind them. “You’re just screeching into empty space.”

Ymir finally turns to me with a grin, laughing breathily; Marco takes a deep breath and yells, “I HOPE EVERYONE IS HAVING NICE DREAMS!”

“Look at these cliffs around us, if you can see them,” Ymir tells me, and I look down and around at their great craggy faces, black and silvery in the moonlight. “The sound of our voices bounces between them and around them all the way down to the forest. And when our voices hit Trost, they barely sound like voices anymore!”

“Wait, you mean-“

“That’s right! The howling at night is  _us!”_  She tips her head back and cackles shortly. “And you were afraid some monster’s out to get everyone on the full moon.”

“You guys aren’t much  _better,”_  I sputter, flabbergasted. “The full moon bullshit is just  _you guys?_ What the hell! You guys scare everyone!”

“Is that anything new, honestly?” Ymir shrugs, her mouth twisted with humor. “I stoke the rumors of Marco eating people, I show off my scars, I make everyone scared of the full moon. Terrorizing you people keeps me young.”

“I can’t believe this,” I breathe as Ymir turns away once again to scream something new at my town, something about birds. “You guys have been, like …  _affecting_  me all my goddamn  _life._ Ymir, do you remember when you first told me about your scars? I had nightmares about the naga for years, dude! And now this shit!”

“Stop, you love us,” Ymir drawls. “Try it, it’s awfully cathartic. Let them troubles escape you.”

“I don’t have  _troubles.”_

“‘I almost died, like, three times today!’” Ymir suddenly squalls in the absolute worst mimicry of my voice I’ve ever heard. “‘Oh my god, I hate Eren Jaeger! Stop telling me things that might make me a nicer person! Weh weh weh, I’m scared of everything!’”

“Ymir!” Marco scolds.

“I do not sound like that!”

“‘Oh my god, Marco, don’t come near me! I might get somehow touched by your poison spit! If you look at me longer than two seconds I’ll just DIE.’”

“Yeah, well, ‘I’m Ymir and I just know  _everything,_  don’t I?’” I fire back, lowering my voice to one that doesn’t resemble hers at all, but who cares - there are no rules in the game of disparaging imitation. “‘Hey, Jimbles, come over here and suck my ass! Marco, my son, flop all over me! Oh god, is that a BIRD?’”

“Asshole!” Ymir declares. “Turn some of that negativity on Trost.”

Marco’s laughing and I like that, so I whirl at him and intone, “‘Oh no, Ymir, I’m younger than you and talk less than you but somehow I know how to be a much more pleasant person. I also somehow manage to keep track of like fifty feet of myself, and I wrestle babas for a living and eat poisonous butterflies for fun!’”

“Hey!”

“Oh my gosh, you told him about that?”

“I didn’t think he would make fun of me for it! You’re right, he is an asshole. I don’t like him anymore.”

“I am a delight to be around.” I march right up to the ledge next to Marco, exaggerating a glare at him. “All right, all right, how do I do this.”

Ymir cuts in, “Just yell, dude. HEY, TROST! YOU DON’T EVEN TEACH YOUR KIDS HOW TO  _YELL,_ WHAT THE  _FUCK.”_

“It helps if you put your hands on your face,” Marco tells me, cupping his hands around his mouth, “like this. Ymir says it makes your voice louder.”

“All right, I’ve got this.” I grunt, imitating him with a flourish; unfortunately, I gather a tremendous breath without knowing what the hell I’m going to say, so when I have to expel all that air into words all that comes out of me is a loud, “UH.” I burst into laughter at myself.

“What the fuck,” Marco chuckles.

“Marco! Who the FUCK taught you that language?” Ymir demands.

“You did, sis.”

“Waitwaitwait, lemme try that again!” I demand. Drawing in a deep breath, I holler, “HEY, TROST!” My voice is raspy, unused to the amount of force. “WHAT IS  _UP?”_

“Nothing. It’s nighttime.”

“Don’t be a buzzkill, Marco. HEY! HELLO! HI! DOES MY VOICE SOUND LIKE CRAZY SHIT TO YOU?” I demand of my home; I hope my voice specifically manages to worm its way through Eren’s bedroom walls and into his nightmares. “HEY, EREN, YOU AWAKE? AM I FREAKING YOU OUT?”

“What did I just say about him and Eren Jaeger,” Ymir mutters before stepping up and yelling, “JEAN HERE IS SUCH A CHUMP.”

“HEY EREEEEEEN! WAKE THE FUCK UP! I HAVE WORDS TO SAY. YOUR LITTLE RAT FACE PISSES ME OFF!”

“I REGRET BRINGING JEAN TO THIS HOLY PLACE!”

“OH, EREEEN! I HOPE YOU STEP ON NAX’S TAIL AND HE EATS YOU!”

“HI EREN! I DON’T KNOW WHO YOU ARE OR WHAT YOU DID WRONG, BUT HI!”

“EW, MARCO, NO HE DOESN’T DESERVE IT.”

Ymir shouts, “SOMEONE PLEASE HELP ME; I FEEL LIKE A BABYSITTER FOR THESE TWO ASSHOLES.”

Marco flashes me a toothy smirk before calling, “HI, EREN!”

“MARCO, YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU’RE SAYING.”

_“HI, EREN.”_

I lurch toward him threateningly, outraged at his com _plete_  betrayal; he jerks away with a giddy laugh, his nose scrunched up in devious glee, arms raised to defend himself. I try to fight down my own smile and screech, “HEY, GUYS! THE NAGA IS SUCH AN  _ASSHOLE!”_

“NO I’M NOT!”

“YEAH HE IS! YOU GUYS SHOULD  _SEE_  THIS KID.”

“NOOO! JEAN’S MORE OF AN ASSHOLE.”

“HE EATS CHOCOLATE WITH DEER,  _GOD.”_

“I SHOULD HAVE LET THE BABA EAT YOU.”

“GOOD, I’M FUCKING TASTY.”

“Are you guys yelling at Trost, or each other,” Ymir snorts, fiddling with something inside her satchel.

“Both,” I pant;  _god,_ am I out of shape if all it takes is some yelling to wind me. When Marco yells, he seems to do so with little difficulty or pause, and when he falls silent he doesn’t look like he needs to regain his breath. Absolutely unfair. “You guys must have been doing this shit for years, for everyone to get scared of the full moon like that. You guys are  _horrible.”_

“I hope they don’t get too scared,” Marco mumbles. “It is fun yelling, to be honest.”

“You just took part in the terrorizing too, you know,” Ymir points out, and I shrug.

“I mean, it was already gonna be done without me, so …”

“That is a terrifying mentality. HEY, TROST! YOUR KIDS ARE  _FUCKED UP!”_

“HEY, TROST, YMIR IS FUCKED UP!”

“HI, TROST, I DON’T THINK ANYONE IS FUCKED UP!” Marco pauses. “I’M TRYING TO THINK OF BETTER THINGS TO SAY, BUT MY HEAD’S ALL SLOW.”

“Aww, tired?” Ymir hums. “HEY! FUCKIN’ TROST, YOU TIRED MY BABY OUT! WHAT THE FUCK, YOU CRAZY BASTARDS, OWN UP. HE DEMANDS OFFERINGS.”

“NO I DON’T!”

“YOU CAN GIVE  _ME_  OFFERINGS, THOUGH!”

“NO ONE WANTS TO FUCKING GIVE YOU OFFERINGS, JEAN. YOU’RE DISGUSTING.”

“Is anyone else cold?” Marco timidly puts forth.

“All right, cranky, we’ll go home,” Ymir grouses, turning and looping her arm around his chest and tugging him around a bit. “My poor baby is tired and  _exhausted.”_

“Just when I was starting to have fun, too!” I exclaim.

“What, you weren’t having fun with us all night? I see how it is. Jean Kirschtein thinks he’s too good for us.”

“I am, actually. HEY, TROST! I’M TOO GOOD FOR THEM!”

“Shadduuuup, Marco’s tired of your annoying nasally voice-“

“No, I’m not-“

“My voice is smooth as my-“

“Last one to Marco’s cave gets a wedgie - and Marco, that applies to you too.”

Marco and I fall silent, and take one look at each other and  _run._

v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v

“Does anybody … got an  _eight?”_

“Nope,” Marco says.

I slide my cards together in my hands, rasping their stiff edges together. With a sigh, I hand an eight over to Ymir, who snatches it up with glee. I consider my huge deck of mismatched cards glumly, then eye the organized and probably close to victorious hands the other two have. “I suck at this game. You always ask for the cards I’m hoarding for myself. Can you see my deck?”

“Not when you’re practically smothering them in your shirt, no. Practice makes perfect,” Ymir grunts, turning to Marco and demanding his queens, and growling when he flashes her a wide smile and tells her no dice.

“This game is for losers,” I say pointedly, and roll away with a smirk when Ymir comes after me. “Huge enormous losers with nothing better to do.” I tilt my cards back so the lantern suspended from the ceiling of Marco’s cave can illuminate their faces, shifting position on the blankets and pillows below me to get more comfortable.

Marco’s cave can be more accurately described as a deep rock shelter; it’s not quite big enough to be called a true cave, as its narrow mouth only extends about sixty or so feet into the earth in a tunnel a little less than twenty-five feet wide. Its smooth granite floor and walls contrast its low choppy ceiling, which hovers only feet above our heads and is rough to the touch. Walking down to the end is a wobbly endeavor; the ground tilts and dips in random places, and with my already unsteady knee I was too afraid of slipping and making a damn fool of myself when we came in to pass up Marco’s offered arm. What a gentleman. Gentle-naga.

Lining the walls are sagging wooden shelves, piled high with what I’m guessing are jars and the same kinds of odds and ends as the ones Marco showed me earlier; I wonder how many ocean-shells are among his treasures, and what other fantastical items he could have. I can’t quite make out what they are from Ymir’s flickering lantern over our heads, suspended from a hook that was tapped into the ceiling; it illuminates more than what I could see earlier in the day.

Towards the back of Marco’s cave is a dramatic dip in the floor, a huge kidney bean-shaped depression about twenty feet long, completely filled to the brim with an assortment of mismatched sheets, furs, pillows, and knitted quilts, all of different color and make and texture, apparently all purchased at many different times and from different crafters. Every other bed I’ve ever encountered in my life is a disappointment compared to this one; Marco is  _living_  it if he has this thing every night. I don’t feel the stiff levelness of the floor beneath me; I’m not sure how deep this bowl-bed goes, but it’s enough to make me feel like I’m sinking into quicksand or something, and not in a bad way. I could fall asleep right now.

I refuse, though. Marco looks like he’s about to drop any second now. This is a competition I intend to win.

The cacophony of trilling bugs outside is only slightly dampened by distance, and the cold still seeps in with icy tenacity (especially since Marco’s got no front door) but the close walls of the cave and the endless selection of blankets makes me feel moderately warm and snug anyway. Color is even returning to my fingers! No such luck on my toes, unfortunately.

Ymir has indeed claimed the fuzzy blue blanket, and is indeed shirtless under there.

We lie on our stomachs in a circle as they play this dumb card game that I won’t admit out loud is pretty fun and I try in vain to keep up. Marco’s body lies in a wide circle around the three of us, overlapping itself at least once, dipping in and out of the depths of the blankets; as it passes Ymir it rests upon her back and her legs. After Marco unsuccessfully begs for Ymir’s aces, I pipe up, “Oy, vicious naga.”

“That’s  _mister_  vicious naga.”

I guffaw; Marco’s eyes glitter with delight. “All right, mister vicious naga. Gimme your fours.”

“I have no fours to spare,” he intones. “Draw a card, huge enormous loser.”

I do so, slowly dragging a card across the top of the draw pile, but then flick it hard to the side in Marco’s direction, sending cards flying his way. “You messed it all up!” he frets, shoving them back into a stack.

“That’s what you get. Ymir, hurry up and go so I can get this asshole’s cards.”

“Just because you said that I’m gonna take my sweet, sweet time.  _Hmmmm …”_  She peruses her deck mere inches from her face, squinting at me in amusement from the corners of her eyes.

“Don’t be an asshole!”

She snorts, then freezes, her eyes locked on Marco; silently she starts punching my shoulder for my attention and jerking her chin at him. I look and see Marco’s mouth slowly wobbling its way open, and Ymir and I watch with fascinated, bated breath for him to fully yawn; unfortunately, his squinted eyes catch sight of us staring, and he snaps his mouth shut.  _“Stop_  it!” he demands. “You’ve been doing that all night!”

“Jean’s just interested in seeing how cool your mouth is, sweetie.”

“No, he wants to laugh at it.”

“No he doesn’t!”

“He’s laughing right now.”

Well shit, I gave it away entirely. “Honestly, I kind of want to see your fangs, that’s all,” I tell him. “Plus Ymir told me you can open your mouth, like, waaaay open, is that true?”

Marco slumps from leaning on his elbows to flat on his chest, hiding his red face behind his deck. “Might be.”

“I’ll yawn as wide as I can if you yawn as wide as you can,” I offer, but Marco’s response is to bury his face in his bed and grumble, so I sigh, “Marcooo. Don’t you think it’d be a great bonding experience?”

 _“Yawning_  together? No! You’ll get scared! Your mouth is so small compared to mine.”

“Yeah, but until we compare, we don’t know that for a fact, do we?”

“You’re really determined to see his mouth,” Ymir observes.

“Fuck yeah I am! I wanna see the-“ I clumsily try to imitate her analogy from before with my arms, but that’s harder than it seems when I’m simultaneously leaning on my elbows. “-the thing!”

“Leave me alooone,” Marco whines. After a pause he peers up at me, his eyes wide and inquisitive. “Jean,” he says slowly, “can I ask you something?”

“Yeah, sure.”

He rocks back up onto his elbows, placing his cards neatly facedown beside him. “I’m very tired,” he hums, words slurring a bit from drowsiness, “but I want to stay awake a little longer to play this game, and a good way for me to be more alert is to get warmer, so would you … be all right with me touching you?”

“What … kind of touching are we talking here.” Before he can respond I snort, “Because, I mean, we kind of touched a lot today, so nothing will surprise me at this point.” I exchange an amused glance with Ymir.

“I just mean … if I were to put some of my body near you to warm up, would you not like that?”

“Nah, man. Go for it.”

“Really?”

“Marco, do I have to start screaming about how you saved my life today again?”

He chortles as the blankets around us shift, displaced by Marco’s rotating body; it’s too dark to see exactly what’s moving to where, but I feel the solid weight of some of his thick coils pressing against my legs as he tries to figure himself out. One loop rotates up my thigh, then slides over the back of my legs, then over my ass - wow,  _excuse_  you, Marco - until his body settles across the small of my back and goes still. It’s surprisingly light, for such a large and sturdy snake trunk. “Is this all right? Do you want me to move?” Marco asks.

“Nah, this is fine -  _whoahoa,”_ I wheeze, as Marco’s body drags across my back another foot or two; I could feel the muscles in his snake stomach undulating and pressing against my skin through my shirt. “That was fuckin’ weird. It’s fine, though!” I insist immediately upon seeing the look of dismay on Marco’s face. “It just feels funny. Not funny in a bad way, either, just different.”

“If you want me to move at all, tell me. You-“ He pauses, face scrunched in concentration. “You feel colder than Ymir.”

“I’m always cold, honestly. Remember my hands?” I waggle my freezing fingers, then reach back and lay them on his smooth, pebbled back scales. His shoulders stiffen in immediate discomfort.

“Don’t torment my poor baby,” Ymir whines. She leans away with a frantic hiss when I stretch my torturous fingers in her direction instead. “Don’t torment me either, you goddamn icicle!”

“Ymir, don’t be so mean,” Marco scolds; she tips her head back and groans.

“I don’t know what you’re doing to him, Jean,” she gripes. “Suddenly he’s no fun, paying so much attention to you and making me be nice all the time. Your presence has a negative impact. You gotta leave.”

“I’m looking for Jean’s approval.”

Such glorious honesty. “Yeah, I thought that was obvious.”

“You never used to be this self-conscious,” Ymir states, reaching over to brush Marco’s shaggy hair from his eyes. “You used to go around shamelessly  _yawning_  and  _running_  and  _shedding-“_

“I don’t let you see me shed anymore-“

“Oy, don’t forget who used to help you pull that shit off; I’ve seen it all.” Ymir catches sight of the confused expression on my face and waves me off. “I’ll tell you sometime later.”

“I’m self-conscious because I want Jean to be comfortable,” Marco intones. “He says I act weird sometimes and I don’t want to be weird. You never told me looking at people is rude.” His tone turns playfully accusatory at the end.

Ymir rolls her eyes and sets her cards down to lean on her elbows and hold her hands up. “Well, I mean … there are different social contexts for when you  _can_ look at someone and when you can’t, and you’re never going to be exposed to anyone but me - well, until this asshole showed up - so I never bothered making the effort to teach you, y’know?”

“Yeah, like the handshake thing,” I mutter.

Marco turns to me. “When I thought about it after a while, I realized I  _did_  know what handshakes are; I’d just forgotten after so long.”

I grumble into the blanket below me; when Marco tilts his head and makes an inquisitive noise I say louder, “Yeah, but you don’t know how often you’re supposed to give handshakes.”

Marco looks at Ymir. “What does he mean?”

“Aw, you’re giving it away,” she complains.

“Sucks for you. Yeah, uh, Marco, you’re only supposed to shake someone’s hand once.” I bunch my lips up toward my nose as I watch his face morph into one of confusion. “Like, when you first meet them and that’s it.”

“But I’ve been shaking your hand every time I see you,” he says slowly.

“Yeah, I know. You only shake someone’s hand when you first meet them, like, the very first time. So for us that would be, uh, the first handshake we ever had, after we scared the shit out of each other, right? After that it’s unnecessary.”

Marco gazes at me with blank eyes, mouth ajar, until Ymir and I exchange about three near-hysterical looks, and then he whirls upon his sister, slapping his hands down upon the sheet below him. “Ymir! Why didn’t you tell me? I’ve been embarrassing myself this whole time!”

Ymir bursts out laughing and mouths,  _“What?”_  as if it totally wasn’t her fault.

“No wonder you looked so confused that one time!” Marco exclaims in my direction. “I must’ve looked like an idiot, oh my  _god-“_

“Dude, it’s fine!”

“No it isn’t! I’m such a-“ Marco buries his face in the blanket and groans into it whatever it is that he apparently is.

“Marco, I promise it’s fine. I didn’t even tell you, I just kind of went with it anyway. Don’t worry about it.”

“I promise not to do it again,” Marco moans, all muffled.

I roll onto my side to reach over and pat the back of his head, snickering. “It’s fine.”

“Lookit you guys,” Ymir hums, almost too quiet to be heard. I give her a questioning look, but she shakes her head and goes, “Nothing. Nothing!”

Another muted groan from Marco interrupts my demands for an explanation, and I snort. “Okay, I’m glad we clarified this. Does anyone else have any earth-shattering secrets they’d like to share?”

“I once had a foursome with-“

“Ymir, that’s not the kind of information I was looking for. How about we go back to playing this game? I’ve still got some tricks up my sleeve- don’t give me that look! Who’s with me? Marco?”

Ymir and I turn to him; we receive no reply. Ymir reaches over and prods his shoulder and he mumbles something unintelligible in response, shifting away and dragging his snake body along our backs a few feet before settling again. He pillows his head in his arms and closes his eyes. “Well, looks like bedtime,” Ymir observes. “So much for our card game.”

“And I was so close to winning, too,” I whine, then snort when Ymir gives me a skeptical look. “Maybe next time I’ll beat your asses.”

We lapse into a busy, comfortable silence as I shuffle around and make a formidable blanket cocoon, mindful of Marco’s weight across my back and not wanting to rouse him; Ymir collects our discarded cards and rolls around until she wriggles out from under her brother’s body and gets to the lip of the bed-bowl to put them away on some shelf. “Night,” I grunt, and she does the same to me, before I flip a thin sheet over my head to block out the crisp air and let my own body warm up my little nest, jamming my fingers between my thighs for now. I tense up as Marco’s stomach slides from the bottom of my ribs to the hollow of my hip, but it settles, and I relax. I don’t want to wake him up when he’s clearly so comfortable. Not like he doesn’t have tons of bed space to utilize, but hey, if I’m warm then I’m warm. Not like I’m not comfortable anyway. You get so much versatility when your bed is literally nothing but never-ending blankets and pillows. I feel like I’m lying on a cloud.

Everything goes dark as Ymir blows out the lantern that illuminated the other side of my sheet. My eyes droop shut as I hear her roll - probably unceremoniously, by the sound of it - back into the bed and into her former position, shifting around (what is she doing, flailing or something?) before slowly going still. I yawn quietly and wiggle around a bit, getting truly comfortable, feeling drowsiness drag my eyes closed and weigh down my limbs. When Ymir rolls over and drags her knuckles across my scalp I flip the sheet off my face, squinting at her through the darkness. “What?” I whisper.

“Next time?” she murmurs, leaning on her elbows and resting her head on her palm; I can make out Marco’s body draped over her back again.

“Next time what?”

“You said that next time you’ll beat our asses at this game. That mean you intend to sleep over next month too?”

Oh, shit, I totally assumed. “I mean, if I’m allowed or something.”

“So you  _want_  to, then?”

Now I see where she’s getting at. “Uh, yeah, I do.”

“Nice, then.” She flops onto her back, staring up at the ceiling, one hand finding Marco’s scales to pat him. I assume she’s going to sleep, so I cover my face again, until she hums, “Have fun today?”

I rip the sheet off my head. “I almost got-“

“Yes, yes, I know you almost got eaten!” she hisses, suppressed laughter making her whisper wobbly. “Aside from that. Be honest.”

“Yeah, I did.” When she makes a noise I crane my head back to peer at her. “Honestly, I did. You guys are the weirdest friends I’ve ever had, but you’re fun.”

Ymir snorts. “If Marco was awake to hear that, he’d have a conniption. Glad you had fun, Jean.”

I shoot a wide grin at her and joke, “In the spirit of all this late-night camaraderie, you think we might go easy on the training from now on?”

To my surprise, she snorts, “We’ll see, Jim. Get some sleep. Oh, and if you wake up and find Marco completely on top of you, don’t get alarmed. He does that.”

“Noted.”

With that, Ymir stretches and then rolls over, flipping a blanket over herself and the stretch of Marco on top of her; I murmur a drowsy, “Night, fucker,” and cover myself for  _hopefully_  the last time, but not before reaching an arm out to pat Marco’s scales with a, “Night, other fucker.”

As silence falls I nestle down in Marco’s bed with a contented hum, heart thumping from the knowledge that I’ve actually got things to look forward to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> . . . Surprise? I'm not dead.
> 
> I am SO SORRY for the huge gap between the last chapter and this one, as well as the lackluster AF quality of the update. There's no excuse for it at all aside from me being lazy/unmotivated, even with how excited I am to work on this fic. Unfortunately, the bad news is that this is going to be the standard; it will always take me many months to update, and as much as I try to avoid that, it's what ends up happening every time. I don't expect anyone to be satisfied with that, but I can't thank you all enough for your continuous enthusiasm for Dichotomy, as much as it confuses me. You guys make it so worth writing!
> 
> The baba is based on the Deku Baba from the Legend of Zelda series, but tweaked with my own design. It's a combination of an Albany pitcher plant (lips, head and mouth color), a cape sundew (the tentacles), and a Venus flytrap (the lip hairs and neck). I'm a little worried about how I described it and the scene it stars in, so if you could let me know if you had trouble visualizing/imagining it, as well as any recommendations for describing new things/writing action, that would be amazing!


	9. Skinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **SKINNER** | _noun_ | 1. a person who skins animals or prepares skins / 2. gossip
> 
> The Jean/Ymir chapter no one asked for.

**Skinner**

The bells sing out for an execution one morning, and Thomas has to shake me out of bed so I won’t be late. I’m still stumbling and yawning by the time we finally emerge from our house, shivering from the cold morning air, the four of us in our best clothing - which for some means apparently wearing a shade of green halfway between mold and vomit.

“Your dress is so- _god,”_ I gripe.

Thomas rolls his eyes and moves to walk next to my dad instead. “Jean, don’t be rude to your brother,” my mom grunts.

“We shouldn’t have let you leave the house like that.”

“You should talk- you _slept_ in those,” Thomas rejoins, gesturing around our parents at my baggy pants and mangy shirt. 

“At least I’m matching!”

“Boys,” Dad frets. The village square is within view, framed by houses on the sides of the street we walk down; from here we can see the gathering crowd, their sleepy murmurs filling the morning air, and distant figures perched high upon the sacred dais. I used to get nervous flutters at the sight; now this is just an inconvenience forcing me to roll out of bed too soon.

Other families join us as we plod to the square. Dad waves good-naturedly at some friends and strikes up friendly conversation, which his companions groggily reciprocate; Mom, meanwhile, beckons over the Carolina family, with whom we’re all familiar. Two adults whose first names escape me start griping to Mom about what nasty pauper stirred shit up now as their daughter Mina falls into step with me. 

She flashes me a smile, to which I reply with a grunt. “Morning, Jean.”

“Mnhm.”

“You look awfully chipper today,” she jokes, bumping me with her shoulder, a motion that sends a wave of irritation through me; I hate it when people are too physical with me.

I sidle away from her until there’s a more comfortable distance between us. “I gotta work in a few hours, whatever. I just wanted to sleep.”

“At Reiner’s, right?” I nod. “How is it there?”

“Boring,” I groan, drawing it out. “People are so dumb and rude. I ask them what they want and they either take, like, ten million years to decide what they wanna order, or they just stare at me like- like I’m the damn naga.”

I contemplate the way _I_ stare at the damn naga - familiar and fond, though usually with some exasperation - as Mina laughs. “Maybe I’ll stop by and make things a little less boring.”

Whoa, I barely goddamn know Mina. We only make forced conversation when my parents drag me to their house or she’s brought to mine, though she always seems more at ease than I am. “Yeah, sweet.” 

We gravitate toward our own families as the growing crowd looms close, and I wriggle between my mom and my dad to avoid getting lost in its midst. No one’s particularly interested in getting a good view; there’s not much action to witness anyway. By now the townsfolk have filled the flat, foliage-sparse square to the edges, until people spill out into the streets branching away from it. My mom forges a path for us to underneath a solitary tree; its boughs are high enough that we can clearly see the dais. Thirty feet tall it rises, a square platform of white stone, surrounded by wide, shallow steps of the same material: a miniature, manmade, symmetrical hill, visible by all, crafted for glorious showcase. Twin oak pillars, their smooth, oiled surfaces gleaming, stand tall, side by side at the dais’s highest level; black chains, gleaming and new, wrap around their bases, and the ground between them is darkened and stained.

Sensing its purpose, the crowd, though huge, never congregates too near, and words are hushed the closer they get to those stone steps. At the zenith of the dais cluster several high-ranking members of the military police: resplendent Gloria Bernhard; brothers Djel and Ralph Sannes with faces grim; and old Omar Fritz; side by side overlooking the citizens of Trost are Pastor Nick and Nile Dok, conversing in low voices. Nick, with sunken eyes and stiff posture, towers over the stressed-looking Nile - in other words, the same they’ve always looked. They usually appear to be in close quarters. 

As the last stragglers arrive everyone falls silent when Pastor Nick steps forward, arms spread as though to embrace us. “Friends,” he intones. “Family. We welcome you this fine morning.”

We chorus back pleasantries that get lost in each other; one squeaky young voice hollers from near the houses, “GOOD MORNING!” and we all laugh. 

Pastor Nick barely cracks a smile, but that’s okay; we all know he’s crotchety. He starts droning on about something or another about how we shouldn’t actually be out here if it weren’t for _some people,_ and I slouch against the tree, tuning him out. It’s probably the same stuff as what he says at church, just with whatever sorry soul’s gonna get offed instead of the default naga starring as who makes our lives miserable simply by existing. 

Clouds billow cool and grey overhead; it must be ready to snow or sleet soon, and I can’t decide which one I hate more. I cast my gaze over the crowd instead, over the enraptured faithful and politely attentive and shifty impatient bored, like me. We’ve all got better things to do, I’m sure. Way to my right I think I can glimpse Sasha’s ponytail- or, wait, is that her? She has this reddish tint to her hair that’s unique to her and one of her moms, as far as I know- yep, yeah that’s her; I can see Connie’s bald-ass head within fifteen feet. When are they gonna bone? Maybe they already have. Ew. 

Loitering in their area are Mikasa (HI) and Eren (BYE), as well as their parents, Grisha (who looks like he constantly needs a bath) and Carla (Carla’s cool), caretakers in one case biological and the other adoptive. Grisha is the town’s best and most trusted doctor; I heard he once saved us from a plague brought from terrible lands by thieving, exploitative foreigners who wanted to weaken us. Had Maria not shone through Grisha’s hardworking hands, many people would have died. He’s cool, I guess. Carla is too. She’s a housewife, last time I checked, and she sure knows how to keep a bunch of kids well-fed. Shame two perfectly respectable people had to spawn that _thing._

Mikasa has been a part of their family for as long as I can remember. No one knows who her parents are, and it’s safe to assume they’re not from Trost, which Mikasa takes some fallback for. I mean, she’s still really pretty! With her pretty face and silky black hair . . .

All right, I’m staring. I need to sober myself with something gross. Which is worse, Thomas’s dress or Pastor Nick’s livery turkey-neck? Both have got a decent shot for Worst Thing to Contemplate After Witnessing Beauty. 

Oh my god, if Marco was here, he could take up so much space. People would have to, like, stand over his body sometimes. And if he held himself like he normally does, all raised up with his chest horizontal to the ground and his arms drooping, he’d take up even _more_ space. He could totally knock over so many people with that snake body. I want to do that, shit. That would be hilarious. What a ruckus that would cause. Ew, who am I, Mom? Who even uses the word “ruckus”? Thank god I didn’t say that out loud - did I? - I didn’t, good. That would’ve been so embarrassing. 

A hush falls over us all as Pastor Nick stands aside, words apparently exhausted; the crowd on the far side of the dais parts to clear a path for four figures, who make their way up the steps to the twin beams: two members of the military police, holding between them a ragged, dirty degenerate, and, shadowing them, the executioner. The headsperson’s presence is a tangible one; clad in a black smock and boots, their identity is kept hidden by their large white mask, carved in the likeness of the smiling goddess Maria, framed by black cloth to shroud the entire head and most of the shoulders. Executioners, or freers, as we call them, change with every ceremony, forever masked so that they escape judgement from their fellow citizens; this one appears physically female. In their hands is hefted a heavy double-edged axe, shiny and sharp, eager for its purpose.

Dad politely stifles a yawn beside me, then nudges Mom and murmurs something about how nice the couple in front of us looks. I shoulder myself in between them and squint. “Isn’t there supposed to be three of them? Where’s that woman with the funny nose?”

“Jean, keep your voice down,” Mom chides exasperatedly. 

“Oh no! Do you think they separated from her?” Dad gasps.

“Don’t fret, dear. I’m sure she just felt sick and couldn’t come.”

After some words we just missed, the prisoner is made to kneel between the beams. The MP and the Pastor stand over them, their gazes righteously pitying, especially because the person’s visibly sobbing. Some people at the front turn away in disgust at the display. The weeping increases in pitch as the freer steps up, waving a hand; at their behest the MP chain the criminal by the arms low to the posts on either side of them, forcing them to bow forward until their head is nearly bent to touch the ground, a final prostration to the goddess they turned away from. 

“Hey, Mom, remember that time I stole that pie from her window?” I ask Mom. “When I was, like, four? I don’t even _like_ pie.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“You made me return it and helped me bake another one to make it up to them. I remember it pretty clearly- we were, like, standing in the kitchen, and I kept asking you where cherries come from, and you told me they fell from the sky on sunny days? Way to tell a kid a lie, by the way.”

Pastor Nick’s reciting some final words to ensure the sinner’s soul to heaven. Mom chuckles. “What’s wrong with preserving your sense of wonder, Jeanbo?”

“Oh my god, do _not_ call me that. I’m _fifteen.”_

“Yes, but you’ll always be my little Jeanbo.”

“Leave me alone! You know, it’s kind of her fault for putting the thing on her windowsill anyway. Who does that? What if it rained? What if a raccoon or something came along and took it?” 

Pastor Nick steps aside, away from any potential splatters to mar his robe. The MP steps back as well; the freer is the only one who comes forward, and a wail of despair issues from the bound prisoner.

“A little raccoon _did_ come and take it,” my dad coos, tickling me lightly in the ribs; I jump a foot in the air and almost slam into Thomas.

“Watch yourself, Jeanbo.”

“Screw off, _Tom-Tom.”_

“Don’t call me that!”

“Don’t call _me_ Jeanbo!”

The axe rises; a hush falls over some of the crowd. Most of it continues talking.

“Jean, your voice is carrying.”

“Your face is carrying! Ugh, I touched your _dress,_ I feel _dirty-”_

“Boys, please,” my mom chides gruffly. “Both of your voices are carrying.”

A _crunch_ and the sound of metal ringing on marble cuts through the air, and after it silence. “Yeah, well, everyone else is talking too. Thomas, seriously, next time you go out I’m choosing what you wear. I’m trying to do you a sibling service here.”

“And you’ll turn around and charge me for it, you broke, nagging little-”

“Boys!”

Mom turns to me with a frown and a wrinkled forehead as Pastor Nick drones some bland words, beseeching us to pray for the sinner’s wayward soul, whose barren body is now cascading red down the stone steps. Can’t see where the head wound up. “I’d send you two to your room, but you share it and I can always hear your bickering through the walls.”

“Hey, we’ve got to deal with hearing you calling Dad ‘kitty’ all over the house, so . . .” Thomas guffaws at that one.

_“Jean Kirschtein.”_

“Regina Kirschtein.”

“Oh, go to work or something; it’s too early for this,” Mom sighs, throwing a hand up in the air and letting it fall. 

“I don’t have to work for _hours,_ though,” I whine, slumping and pouting. As the final words have been said the crowd begins to disperse; some, yawning, return to their homes to get some shuteye, and others mill about in groups, chatting uninterrupted. The Jaegers appear to have left the premises, and I envy their escape. If only I could slip away to home so easily without my mom having a canary about me “socializing” and “being polite to friends and family”; I barely talk anyway, so what’re they missing?

I form responses in my head to imaginary questions, all in a soft voice with a strange accent: how many people are here, who I know, what my parents are like. At least if he was here I’d have someone to talk to.

Stuffing my hands in my pockets, I wander away toward the dais, more to occupy my time and feet than for any specific destination. I spot Reiner chatting up a group of people and go to hover next to him, hoping to just say hi. When he sees me he turns, opening his arms and clapping me on the shoulder. “Hey, there he is! Can’t imagine how hard it was to raise you from the dead this morning.”

“Ha ha.” You can understand how old that one gets. I’m sure you’re tired of it too.

“Oh, lighten up. Where’s your folks? I want to say hi to them.”

“Please, god, no,” I mutter. “You’ll talk to them for hours and I want something to eat, you can’t distract them.”

"Just because you said that, I’m gonna go over and distract them all day long. And no falling asleep at work, now. I can’t afford another peel after you torched the last one.”

“You’re a fuckin’ _liar,”_ I yowl, crossing my arms. “It’s a little brown around the edges, it still works, you bastard! You make it sound like I almost burned the damn place down.”

A laugh attracts my attention to the side, and I see Reiner’s crowd had dispersed except for three I hadn’t noticed earlier: Armin Arlert, Sasha, and Connie. “Oh, ‘sup.”

Great, now I want to go back to my parents. “’Sup, _Jeeeaaaan,”_ Connie drawls in their unnecessarily excited voice. “How you been?”

I can’t tell if they're mocking me or not. I try to look disinterested. “Uh, good. You?”

“Good!” they all chorus, with varying degrees of enthusiasm. “What’ve you been up to, Jean?” Armin queries, his words soft and polite. 

“Uhh, nothin’ much,” I grumble, shrugging. I look around for Reiner, intending to redirect the conversation back to him somehow, but he’s gone; an indignant glance tells me he really _did_ go to talk to my parents, the bastard. He left me alone with these people. “Just working with Reiner and Ymir, I guess-”

“Hey, don’t you go hunting with Ymir, huh?” Sasha bursts out. “You go hunting with her, don’tcha? Eren told us!”

Oh, so _Eren’s_ nice and aware, and talking about it, no less. “Yeah, I am. We go once a week and bring back, uh, lots of stuff . . .”

“What kind of tricks is she teaching you?” Connie demands. “Is she scary? Did she let you touch her scars?”

“I want to touch them.”

“Bet you want to touch more than her scars, Sash.”

“CONNIE SPRINGER, you bet I do, but you can’t just say that out loud- what if he tells Ymir?”

Armin catches my eye and - whoa - shoots me an exasperated look. The simple gesture fills me with unexpected warmth. “Yeah, I mean, I might run that by her, being her pal and all-”

“NO.”

“-but I doubt she returns the sentiment, she’s got her eyes on someone else.”

“WHO?” Sasha could do to use her indoor voice even if we’re outside. “Jean, you, like, you know all Ymir’s secrets!”

I grin wolfishly. “You have _no_ idea.”

“Whoa, that didn’t sound sexual at all,” Connie mutters; they and Sasha burst into obnoxious snorting giggles.

“I’m glad you’re learning a lot with her, Jean,” Armin interjects as the others jeer at my disgusted face. “No matter how it’s going. I feel like you two would mesh well, though, somehow.”

How would you know? I don’t say that out loud. “We spend half the time screaming at each other, so you’re a little off the mark.” And the other half is spent amusing Marco.

Marco. Would he get along with these guys? Armin, for sure; his patience and intelligence would tackle Marco’s questions as they come. Sasha and Marco would match for weirdness; Connie could probably speak to him better than I ever could. I start imagining Marco here for a different reason.

“You ready to go, Armin?” Connie asks at a loud rumble from Sasha’s stomach. “I skipped breakfast for this, and I’m pretty sure Sash is about to swallow that severed head over there whole.”

“Oops, yeah, my grandpa’s probably waiting,” Armin chuckles apologetically. “See you around, Jean.”

“Huh- oh! Yeah, sorry, see ya.” I take an awkward step back, not meeting their eyes. Way to look unaffected, Jean!

Sasha and Armin are three paces away when Connie goes, “Hey, Jean, wanna come?”

I stare at Connie in shock; they’re grinning at me and jerking their chin in the others’ direction in invitation. _“Yeah-_ uh, go where?”

“We’re goin’ to Armin’s grandpa’s house for some breakfast, wanna tag along? He makes anything you request, so he could probably make you an omelet- that’s your favorite, right?”

“Yeah. I’m surprised you even remember that.”

They shrug, that toothy smile unrelenting. “Hungry?”

“Always,” I joke, and they snort. This is so much easier than I thought it would be. 

Armin and Sasha wait for us to catch up, and I feel the first stabs of regret, reasoning I should’ve just coveted my little victory of one painless conversation with my old friends instead of risking more chances to mess up. When I scan their faces for any disappointment about my inclusion they either hide it well or don’t feel it at all. I wonder if it’s too late to feign fatigue or sickness and sneak home. 

The three form a line, leaning in on each other and chatting immediately; I try to keep up on Connie’s right side as we head to the northeast side of town. What to occupy myself with? Admiring the scenery, counting my footsteps? Or do I try to be included in the conversation? They’re talking about something Sasha bought, and I can’t gather enough context to contribute, so I’ll just chill on the outskirts. It sounds like some article of clothing that is so scratchy Sasha, and I quote, “could reliably use it to skin a horse.” Christ, Sasha, not in front of Connie, their family owns the ranch.

Oh, shit! Where Armin is usually means Eren and Mikasa are not far behind. Mikasa’s company I’d welcome, but Eren I can do without!

Where are we even going? From the square we went southeast through craggy alleys over craggier cobblestones which eventually turn to pockmarked dirt roads. I don’t go to this part of town much. The houses are less that and more shacks with sagging roofs and splintery-boarded walls. Unkempt-looking people loiter around in lethargic groups, missing teeth and patches of hair. The four of us clump closer together without a word. 

“Armin, your grandpa lives here?” I ask. Usually grandparents live with their families; no point in taking up more than one house. My grandparents died a couple of years ago, so the house is just us four. 

“My mom grew up here, but when she moved further into town he refused to leave his old house. I still visit him every day because he gets lonely.”

Trees outnumber houses five to one as we near the border of town, strolling down a bumpy cul-de-sac toward a particularly low and wide house, squat like a toad yet solidly built and maintained, its paneled roof nearly flat and wraparound porch big enough to host a goodly party. I wrack my brains to remember if I’ve met Armin’s grandpa before; I most likely have at some party or something. I hope he doesn’t remember me. Don’t you hate it when you can’t remember old people, but they can remember you? _Oh, Jean, it’s you!_ Oh, it’s you, generic old person who’s probably my mom’s friend, therefore not mine. _Do you remember me?_ No, I really don’t and you know it, stop making this awkward. _You’ve gotten so big!_ Yes, thank you, it’s called growth, we all do it, though all it’s done to you is add wrinkles.

Armin bounds up the steps with puppy-like enthusiasm, knocking politely on the door. “Papa? It’s me and some friends, can we come in?”

No one answers. Armin trots down the steps and around to the side of the house, gesturing for us to follow. “He’s probably gardening or feeding the cats in the backyard.”

“I wanted to feed the cats!” Sasha whines, and I perk up at the mention of cats. I love cats, man.

Whoa, this is one big house. It’s one story, but as long as it is wide. Our reflections bob across big glass windows as we pace after Armin, Connie and Sasha arguing over who gets to feed the cats first and me just trying to keep up. I snort, imagining Marco with us. He’d probably try to go on the roof and scare someone, like this one time where we whistled for him, he just didn’t show up, and when I marched into the woods to investigate he suddenly dove his human torso down from his spot perched and wound up in a tree - I didn’t know he could climb trees - and made me jump a damn foot in the air, the huge asshole. Ymir laughed so hard I thought she was going to throw up.

Then Marco fell out of the tree like a limp shoelace because _he_ was laughing too hard to balance. Serves him right.

“Hi, Papa!” Armin calls cheerfully, standing on tiptoes to kiss his grandfather on the cheek. His grandfather, a tall man with a greying beard and a wide-brimmed hat, smiles at him and then up at us, his eyes crinkling at the corners. 

“Good morning, Armin, Sasha, Connie . . . and Jean?”

FUCK, he knows me.

I bunch my lips up and wave halfheartedly, which turns into an offered hand as Armin’s grandpa approaches for a handshake. My polite smile turns a little genuine as my memory flies back to the first time Ymir and I visited Marco after the sleepover, and therefore after Marco’s revelation that you only shake hands once. When he came when we whistled I ran at him with my hand extended, a shit-eating grin on my face, and he swatted my hand away and told me to fuck off. Touchy, touchy.

“I’m not sure if you remember me; you used to come and play here when you were small,” Armin’s grandpa says, bringing me back to the present. “Other than that I have only seen you in passing in town. How do you do?”

“I’m good, you?”

“Sleepy and a little hungry, which I am sure you are. Armin’s told me you’re a big eater, yes?”

How much do these people talk about me when I’m not around? “I am, actually.”

“Well, you’ve come to the right place, at least your friends might say. But for now, we have breakfast to provide for some other friends, right, kids?”

Sasha is gone; I think she’s in the house raiding his pantry. Connie and Armin are doing this weird handshake thing, but they perk up and pipe, “Yes!” when prompted. 

Sasha erupts out of the house, balancing no less than five wooden platters on her arms brimming with various cooked meats like chicken and beef, shredded into curiously small strips. “Ready, sir!”

A great stirring drags my eyes to my left, and I’m met with the sight of a great gardened backyard. It’s a very attractive lot of land, with hedges serving as a border between the forest and Armin’s grandpa’s property, and within are plots of colorful flowerbeds and labelled vegetable gardens bordered by rows of stones. He must keep this place well-raked; there are hardly any autumn leaves among the browning flowers and dirt pathways, though maples and oaks scattered throughout the yard provide canopy cover (or they would, if it was a more forgiving season). 

And covering this property are cats of every size and color, trotting toward us from basking places atop rocks or within flowerbeds, piping a chorus of reedy meows. There’s no way he owns all of these cats. Tabbies, calicos, longhairs, shorthairs- this must be every cat in town! No wonder most of them are so fat.

Sasha stands at attention as the cats mill around her ankles. “I present to you, my little dears-” She deposits her platters in a long line like a master chef displaying the tenderest cut of veal for a king, bowing and posturing. “-your _ahem_ midmorning meal. _Voila.”_

Whatever word that was. Sasha’s so dramatic.

This is heaven; I just love cats. Hey, there’s that gray cat that screams outside my window sometimes! I always thought it was pregnant, but maybe it’s just fat from these meals. And further back, is that-

Oh my god, there’s a big black dog here. I wait for chaos to erupt, but then realize that’s not a dog. “Oooooh, man,” I mutter, narrowing my eyes at my greatest adversary, the wicked Anaximander Bodt, come to claim his royal breakfast, I see. We’re not far from Ymir’s house, I realize. He’s easily twice the size of every cat around him, and they clear a path for him as he slinks by. And waddling beside him, Rose! Her fat swings from side to side as she trots around, how precious is that?

Oh my god. She sees me, stills, then prances toward me with a breathy meow. She remembers me! It’s like Maria herself come to earth to give me a pat on the head. “Hi, Rosie!” I squeak, practically falling to my knees to greet the little tabby. She jumps on my lap with no hesitation, planting her front paws on my chest to headbutt my face, purring. This is the best cat ever. Cats just do not get better than this. “What’re you doing here, you- whoa, _fuck-”_

Anaxifuckthiscatseriously charges me with a vicious snarl, his tail puffed up like a raccoon’s; I fling Rose off me and scramble back, ready to kick this fucking cat. Luckily, Rose lands in a patch of soil on the edge of a flowerbed and immediately curls up to sleep, still purring. Nax detours to her, skidding to a stop and sitting at her head and glaring at me. 

Fight me, Naxie.

Armin, Connie, and Sasha are laughing at me. I shoot to my feet, dusting myself off self-consciously. “Those are Ymir’s cats,” I say loudly.

“Yeah, we know. The big one chases me every time I walk on the other side of the street,” Connie chortles. “I pulled his tail once.”

“Eren told me he can pet that one on the head, and he _tolerates_ it,” Sasha breathes with wonder.

No! This can’t be. Eren can’t beat me in this! With only that, my resolve is set. I _must_ pet Anaximander Bodt.

I take a step toward the beast in question, but his ears flatten immediately to his sharp head and he snarls, his red eyes brimming with warning over teeth that look longer than my fingers. Uh, in time, I guess.

Marco would get a kick out of this right now. 

“Sasha always knows what to do,” Armin’s grandpa chuckles. “Now that our guests are fed, how about some food for the humans?”

Connie and Sasha scream something and race each other inside. Armin gives me a wide-eyed look and we both snort. Goddamnit! I didn’t want to, but his laugh is infectious. I didn’t come here to bond (sure, Jean), I came for free food! 

Armin’s grandpa leads us inside, politely depositing his hat on a coatrack by the door. The home’s interior is cozy and clean, the walls made of solid fir logs that almost gleam with polish. We go through a spacious living room populated by a comfy-looking pair of armchairs and a long, wide couch facing a fireplace into the kitchen, a huge, gleaming place with tons of equally shiny cutlery hanging on the walls. This guy’s house feels like a home-goods store. 

“Now, Armin, dear, I’m picturing a breakfast sandwich for you - yes, I do have sausage, it’s on the counter over there - Connie, you like a classic pair of eggs with some bacon, good choice! Sasha, a bit of everything? Oh, a lot of everything, how could I be so silly? And now Jean,” Armin’s grandpa says, depositing a loaf of bread and some raw meat on the counter and turning to me with a smile. “What can I get you?”

“Uh . . . do you know how to make omelets?” 

“Ah, so you’re still the little omelet lover, eh? Do you take it prepared the same way as you did when you were young?”

“I do- wait, have you made this for me before, or . . . ?”

“In fact, I have. You were very little, so you might not remember, but if I burned even a corner of that omelet, you made sure the whole town knew,” he chuckles. 

I snort. That’s definitely something I would do. “I appreciate perfection,” I assert, flipping my hair dramatically. Sasha makes a noise like someone stepped on her foot. 

“Go make yourselves comfortable in the other room,” Armin’s grandpa shoos, getting things from his cupboards. “Breakfast will be ready in just a few moments- no, Sasha, I insist, I promise I don’t need help, go relax with your friends-”

We troop back to the living room and I loiter in the doorway, evaluating where to sit. Sasha and Connie immediately drape themselves over the couch, and Armin nestles himself into one of the armchairs, so I go to do the same in the remaining one. Holy shit, this thing is comfortable. It’s like it wants to swallow me. And spacious, too. My legs are almost sticking straight out, that’s how far back I can sit. The inside of the seat even slopes down, so your thighs are kind of tilted up, and the back is at an angle . . . whoa, don’t fall asleep, Jean. You haven’t even had breakfast yet. 

“I’m gonna die, I’m just- I’m gonna die right here . . .”

“Sasha, stay with me! There’s so much to hold on for!”

“Stomach . . . cavernous, it’s eating my insides, guhhhhh . . .”

“Steamed rice with basil, broccoli with cheese melted on it, cauliflower and onion, sizzling, bloody steak-”

“Spare me! I’m too weak!”

“Turkey sandwiches with tomato and mayonnaise,” Armin puts forward, and Sasha groans.

“Baked potatoes,” I pipe up, and Sasha all but shrieks. 

“You’re all trying to murder me!”

My eyes dart around the room like they do when I’m agitated. Most of the wooden floor is covered by a thick rug, and a semicircle of granite flooring surrounds the fireplace. The ceiling is high and dusty (I mean, duh, there’s no one tall enough to reach those high corners) (whoa, Marco could!) and (wow, imagine Marco dusting a house) like Ymir’s house, there are paintings all over these walls. “Sasha, look,” I call, pointing at a small picture of a bowl of fruit. Sasha looks and utters a pained gurgle. 

Some intoxicating smells are beginning to waft out of the kitchen. I try not to join Sasha’s anguished chorus; it’s been a while since I’ve had a good, fluffy omelet. 

Man, imagine Marco sampling an omelet. Ymir just fried some eggs for us the morning after the sleepover, but her technique was lazy, lackluster! An omelet master needs to to be the one to deliver such a feast. Marco and his two stomachs would appreciate the offering. Man, I woke up that morning a little before sunrise to take a leak, and when I got back Marco was awake and blinking at me questioningly, and when I asked him if he was going back to sleep he rolled over and sighed, “Y-Yeah . . . yeah . . . uhh . . .” and was snoring two seconds later, to my amusement. When all three of us woke up an hour or so later he didn’t even remember it. 

As Connie taps an aggressive drumbeat on Sasha’s stomach, I look around the room a second time, feeling like there was something important I saw but forgot. The furniture looks like it was made for a giant; Connie and Sasha could lie flat at either end of that couch and their feet wouldn’t even touch. Marco could fit his whole obnoxious body on it. This is the kind of shit I’d love to buy for my potential future house, holy shit. I’ve got to ask Armin’s grandpa where he gets his chairs. 

As I’m jamming my hands between my knees to warm them I do a double take at the painting over the fireplace. A rolling blue abyss, vaster than any lake, laps at a white beach beneath a grassy cliffside. There’s no doubt that’s a painting of the ocean- could it be the one I spied as a child, rolling uninvited into that trader’s tent? I thought there was more land in that picture, or the frame was more intricately carved with patterns. Maybe it’s not the same one. 

“Cool painting, huh?” Armin speaks up, observing where my gaze is locked. I glance at him; he’s conjured a book and a blanket out of fucking nowhere, apparently, and is now wrapped up like a newborn bookworm. He and Marco should talk; they can bond over their affinity for reading.

“Yeah. It’s the ocean, right? I feel like I’ve seen that one before, but I’m not entirely sure-”

I cut myself off with pursed lips, because Armin’s jaw just dropped and he straightened up in his chair to look at me head on. “You know what the ocean is?” he exclaims.

“Uh, yeah. The, uh, the biggest body of water there is, right? Sea, beach, big blue? With the boats and the whales?”

Armin’s eyes widen even more. “Where on earth did you hear that? No one thinks it’s real; not even they know what the ocean is.” He gestures at Connie and Sasha.

“Is the ocean the pine tree that’s thicker than a house, or that big cat with fluffy hair only on its neck?” Connie wonders, staring at the ceiling. “I forget the stuff you tell us, sorry.”

“No, that’s a redwood and a lion, and lions have hair everywhere but a mane of longer hair on their neck- we’re talking about that,” Armin answers, pointing at the ocean painting. “The big lake of salt water, the one you said you were going to drink if it was the last thing you did?”

“Oh, right, that one. Well, thank god it’s not real, so I don’t actually have to.”

“But it is,” Armin grumbles, almost to himself. “I know so.”

“I . . . heard about it somewhere, I don’t know,” I tell Armin, trying to figure out a convincing story for the origin of that knowledge besides, “The naga told me.” 

“Can you remember who said it? I’d love to talk about it with someone; everyone I know just tells me to stop reading so many silly fantasies because anyone can write anything and print it and people will take it as fact- but I know it’s real! I’ve read as much as I can on it; it makes too much sense not to exist.” He falls against the back of the chair with a _plop,_ curling his blanket around himself more. “I want to see it someday.”

I almost - _almost!_ \- tell him that I heard it was northeast, not fifty miles away, but clamp my mouth shut. What am I doing, encouraging someone to go north? I need to watch my mouth better. Oh god, have I slipped up in the past? Let my tongue wag just enough to imply the north isn’t dangerous? My skin goes icy at the thought as I race through the conversations I’ve had in the past week or so. 

“You okay?” Armin asks.

“W- yeah! Yeah, sorry, I was just trying to think . . . of where I first heard about the ocean, I mean. I might’ve seen another painting of it somewhere when I was little, not sure where- for all I know, it could be that exact one up there. Uh, hey, can you tell me more about it? Now I’m curious.”

Armin looks like I just made his year. He carefully places his closed book on a coffee table and wriggles around to face me fully, leaning forward until he looks like he’ll fall out of his armchair. “Jean, I had no idea you were interested in these kinds of things.”

“It’s been a pretty interesting autumn. I’m, like, learning a lot of new things.” To say the least.

“Oh, does Ymir have to do with it? Does she know about the ocean too?”

I mean, everyone knows already she’s not from Trost (except me until she told me, apparently). Would telling Armin she knows what the ocean is do any harm? 

“Yeah, it was her. Apparently she’s seen it- because, y’know, she’s not from here.”

Armin’s eyes shine brighter than a candle. “I need to talk to her. I need to! Someone who’s seen the ocean in person! I _knew_ it was real!”

I imagine how he would react if I told him it was within a day or two’s walking distance and feel immediately guilty, both for thinking about telling him and for refusing to. “Yeah, it’d be great to see it, wouldn’t it?”

Connie stretches and groans, flipping from their back to their side and leaning their head in their hand. “When you two wackos get dragged in by doll-fins and nokks I won’t be there to help you.”

“Doll-fins don’t drag people in,” Armin rebukes, sounding almost offended. 

Shit, I should remember to ask Marco what the fuck doll-fins are. Dolls with fins? Fish dolls? Who makes those? 

A hideous noise issues from the general direction of Sasha’s midriff, but we don’t have much time to respond to it, as Armin’s grandpa strolls right in with plates in his hands. “Thank you for being patient, kids!” 

Another hideous noise issues from Sasha, from her mouth this time, and Connie bellows, “FOOD,” loud enough to rattle my teeth. 

“We’re eating in this room?” I wonder aloud, astonished as Armin’s grandpa lowers a plate of eggs and bacon onto Connie’s bald head in a daring act of balance and a plate filled with what seems like everything a larder can hold onto Sasha’s stomach. Sasha proceeds to engulf what looks like half the plate into her jaws. I’m shocked if she even knows what cutlery is.

Armin’s grandpa disappears, then reappears with two more plates and makes a beeline for us, delivering a sandwich to Armin and-

Were I in Ymir and Marco’s company I’d dramatically announce that I’m going to come or something. Did this man pull an omelet straight from my dreams? 

“Whoa,” I breathe, inhaling perfection as I balance my steaming plate on my lap. A fluffier and more perfectly-formed omelet even my dad could never conjure. “This looks awesome.”

Armin’s grandpa smiles, backing away with a little flourish. “I hope I did it justice, yes?”

 _“Hell_ yes.”

“Hell yes it is.”

“What, does your mom still make everyone sit at the table when you eat?” Connie asks, bacon sticking out of their mouth. “Even when there’s, like, sixteen children in the house?”

“I can’t even eat a slice of bread on the couch,” I sigh, cutting a tiny piece off my breakfast and nearly swooning. “This is like breaking the law right now.”

You know what else is breaking the law? The cloudy texture of this egg. The meaty richness of the rice and chicken beneath. I have died and gone to heaven.

Armin’s grandpa settles down on the couch between Connie and Sasha, some baked bread in his hand and a mug in the other, smiling happily at us all. “Everything cooked to taste?”

Connie, Sasha, and I only respond with moans past our full mouths; Armin says, “Yes, thank you, Papa.”

I _have_ to teach Ymir how to make this, if we’re going to have sleepovers in the future. After the one I attended she kicked us (and by that I mean me) awake and practically shoved those fried eggs in our noses. If I got met with an omelet every time she woke me up, I’d be the opposite of grumpy. 

“Papa, Jean knows what the ocean is,” Armin blurts out, his sandwich not even touched, apparently too agitated to eat. “Before I even told him! He saw your painting.” He points over the fireplace.

“Ah, really?” Armin’s grandpa hums, looking at me with interest. “Now where on earth did you hear about the ocean? That’s quite exciting to hear.”

I hastily chew and swallow the enormous bite of food in my mouth - burning my tongue in the process - and say, “O-Oh, I heard about it from Ymir Bo- you know, the, uh, the weaver? I go hunting with her a lot, and it came up once. Apparently she used to live on the coast.”

I sure hope this isn’t too much to reveal, but what damage are Armin and his kindly grandfather going to inflict? They just seem excited. 

“Yes, I think I know her. I buy my baskets from her. Oh my, I can’t imagine!” Armin’s grandpa exclaims, tapping his feet excitedly. “I glimpsed it just once in my travels, far out and far off, obscured by fog anyway. All I remember is thinking it looked like the end of the world.”

“Jean, can you introduce me to Ymir?” Armin asks. “Whenever I go visit Eren at work I get too shy to talk to her . . . she’s really intimidating . . . but now-”

“Hey, introduce us too!” Connie cuts in; their plate is empty and balanced upon their head again. “We feel like she’ll eat us if we come close or something. Give us an in, Jean!”

“I’ve spoken to Ymir sometimes and I never thought she might have seen the ocean,” Armin’s grandpa muses, “let alone live near it! Oh, I have so many questions. By chance, Jean, do you have any idea what that is?” He points with his mug to another picture, this one more of a mural than a framed painting. It looks like a mountain, like the ridges of one of Marco’s seashells, but less regular and a uniform tan in color. I’m not really sure what it’s attempting to depict. 

“Uhh . . . I gotta say no.” 

“That- we heard it’s called a _desert,”_ Armin breathes, his eyes shining like a pair of gemstones held up to the light. “They’re these big, hot plains full of nothing but sand as far as the eye can see!”

Whoa. What?

“Those big mountains, they’re as big as the ones surrounding Trost, made entirely of sand. They’re called _sand dunes._ Can you imagine, Jean? Climbing a mountain made of sand!”

Okay, the ocean was a stretch, but a big plain made of sand is just a _little_ out there. “Why would the sand be in a big pile like that?” I demand. “Wouldn’t it just . . . I don’t know . . . level out? How’d all that sand get there?”

“Whatever god that placed us here must have willed it,” Armin’s grandpa hums.

“Like Maria.”

“Maria, maybe, yes.”

“Maybe?”

“It depends on what you believe.”

“Didn’t Maria split the earth between barren and fertile?” Connie asks, straightening up. “For the lost and for the faithful? Maybe the dis-sert is just the barren part, and the fertile forest is for us.”

“Yeah, and the forest stretches on for half the world until it cuts off into a wasteland, right? That makes sense. Shit, where does the ocean fit into that?”

“Well, assuming it exists, it’s made of salt water, so I’m guessing that’s in the barren half. Salt water would taste so bad!”

“And nothing can live in salt either!”

Connie and I nod at each other sagely, having figured it all out. Sasha remains silent, apparently trying to eat her clean plate. 

Shit, my own food is getting cold. I wolf down a few more bites of omelet as Armin’s grandpa gets up to bustle around and collect Sasha’s plate before she licks a hole right through it. Who knows how many other dishes have fallen victim to her voraciousness.

Fuck, I’m the only one who hasn’t finished eating. I’m kind of full anyway, amazing as this omelet is. I hand my almost-finished plate to Armin’s grandpa when he comes around for it. “Was this made all right, Jean? Do I need to do anything different?” he asks with the earnestness of a man who takes others’ comforts very seriously.

I give him a half-smile and nod. “Nah, it was awesome. Thanks.” The warmth in his earthy eyes remind me of Marco’s. 

As he bustles into the kitchen, I look around his living room again, wondering if I’ll see something else fantastical like a landscape where trees grow upside down or a mountain that breathes fire. Instead I see the sun outside, low enough in the sky to still be visible from the windows. Oh- Oh _shit!_ I have to work! I jump to my feet, casting around for anything I might have brought with me to Armin’s grandpa’s house. “What?” Sasha asks, looking up at my sudden movement.

“I _just_ realized I have to work in, like, now- fuck, I’m not even dressed!” I scoff at myself, turning a quick circle and trying to remember if I actually did bring a bag or not. I didn’t, right? Yeah, no, I didn’t, I left the house empty-handed. 

“Oh, shit, we kidnapped you,” Connie muses.

“No it was fine!” I blurt out, whirling on him. “It was totally, completely- not bad, at all. Th-Thank you, actually! For inviting me. Guys.” I look over at Armin and try to smile like a normal person instead of the wobbly thing on my face right now. “Thanks for letting me over.”

“Awwww, Jean,” Connie and Sasha croon - a most harmonious sound (that I missed) - and Armin beams back. 

“Of course, Jean! Thanks for coming. It was really nice seeing you again.”

We don’t comment on what the “again” part refers to, but I can tell he means it. “Thank you. Now shit! I gotta run!”

“Byeee,” all three chorus after me as I awkwardly speed out the back door, waving; after two steps outside I pop my head back in and call, “Tell your grandpa I said thanks!” 

“I will!”

Most of the cats have cleared out; I don’t see a great black back, so I assume Nax and Rose are gone too. I prance around the house and back toward town before realizing the house has such big windows that the three could probably see me trotting like an idiot. I slow to a respectable pace, heat rising in my cheeks. Yeah, well, what’s the use for such big windows anyway? My mind races, overanalyzing everything I did and said, trying to lend clarity to any moments where I felt confused and reassurance to those where I felt awkward. 

Was I nosy? Was I rude? Was I awkward and out of place? Unwanted? Most likely. Most definitely. No, wait, they invited me! They wouldn’t have invited me if they didn’t want me to be there. It’s their fault if they regretted it later!

Shit, I should’ve thanked Armin’s grandpa again. _Shit,_ I shouldn’t have stared around so much. I should’ve talked more- no, no, less! 

This is why I don’t interact with people, holy shit. I’m not up for an endless round of did I or didn’t I in terms of succeeding at seeming like a functional human being.

But I’d be lying if I said my mind’s not going to refer to this morning every free second of every day for the next month or so.

v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v

Reiner’s not mad that I’m late. I don’t actually think he notices, though he does look up with expectation at my coming. “Hey, Jeanbo!” he greets. “Your-”

“Don’t call me that!”

 _“Dearest_ Jeanbo. Your girlfriend’s here in the back. She seems impatient. Don’t keep her waiting!”

Ymir? I hum a “huh” and pass Reiner into the bakery. People still crowd in the plaza, though most of them have dispersed. The freer is gone, as is the MP. Nile Dok and Pastor Nick are roving around the square, talking to random groups of people. A pair of teenagers, Pastor Nick’s alter servers, by the looks of their white robes, scrub the blood out of the stone of the dais. 

Ymir is settled on the counter, absentmindedly rolling a ball of dough around between her palms. As I come in she tosses it to me and snorts as I manage to catch it with a flail. “Morning, sleepy.”

“This _can’t_ be good,” I say, setting the dough down on my cutting board. I tilt my head and give her a look.

She gives a half-smile, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Something’s getting to her today. “So optimistic. I can’t drop by to say hello?”

“Well, I mean, you can. Is something wrong with Marco?”

“No . . . well, not technically. I was going to run up and check on him today, but . . .” Her lip curls. “Jolly old Nile and Nick out there talked me into another meeting with the MP. And by ‘talked me into’ I mean they showed up at my house with ten MP members and _heavily hinted_ they’d burn my shit down if I didn’t come.” She grumbles under her breath. “Where were you just now?”

“At . . . a friend’s house.”

“You have friends?”

“Ha ha. You know, you could’ve said no to Nile and Pastor Nick if you don’t want to talk to them so bad.” I turn away, rummaging around and setting up my station for the day, lining up knives to polish and shaking different flour breeds in wooden bowls.

“Mmmm.”

“Like, I know you don’t like them for whatever reason, but if you tell them you really don’t _want_ to be in the MP, they’ll leave you alone and you won’t have to deal with losing your time anymore. They probably have other candidates to get to.”

“With the way they nag me, you’d think I’m the last able-bodied person for miles,” Ymir groans, rubbing her eyes. She looks, and sounds, tired. 

“Well, what have you been saying to them?”

“Everything from ‘no’ to ‘fuck yourselves’ with varying degrees of fondness. This has been going on for almost a year now, Jean, I don’t think they’re really interested in my excuses.”

I frown, troubled and not pinning down why. “What do they even say to you?”

“Join us or . . . they don’t specify.”

“I don’t get, like, _why?_ What’s so special about you that they need you in the MP?”

Ymir doesn’t answer. I purse my lips, glancing at her over my shoulder. She’s leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, leaning her chin in her hands and staring at the floor. “When do they expect you, now?”

“As soon as they’re done chatting up the people in the square, yeah.”

“Did you just wake up? I didn’t see you at the execution today.”

“I’m not interested in your people’s gore fetish.”

I widen my eyes in surprise at the sudden ferocity in her voice, pouring water into a wooden bowl for cleaning my hands throughout the day. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing. Nothing.”

I decide not to pursue it. Maybe it’s the way that amazing omelet is settling in my gut, or the high I’m riding from talking to more than three people in one morning, but I don’t want to see her sad. “Hey, whenever they’re done talking to you, come back and I’ll give you a free table loaf or something. Or if it takes that long we can grab dinner, as long as it’s on you.”

Ymir is startled into chuckles. “Asking me out on a date, then insisting I pay? The ladies and gents must be clawing at your doorstep.”

“Stop!” I yelp, a blush rising to my cheeks for reasons unknown. “I didn’t mean it like that. You just look tired.” I narrow my eyes. “Besides, I am young and broke.”

“Says the kid rolling in dough!”

“Literally, not metaphorically!”

Ymir shakes her head, and I feel some relief at the smile on her face. “Nah, I’m sure your folks wouldn’t approve. And . . . every other folk wouldn’t, either. Hunting with me is a stretch by itself.”

She must be getting different feedback. The only reception I’ve gotten is awe and jealousy, not including my parents’ mistrust. “So I’m guessing you want me to go check on Marco?”

“Yeah, if you don’t mind. Ask Reiner for the last half of the day and run up there to check up on him. You might have to stay a while, and he won’t be in his usual place, so don’t bother whistling.”

“’Check up’? Is he okay? And why today? It’s a Sunday.” I gesture outside, as if the day is written in the clouds.

“Oh, you’ll see when you get to him. You remember how to get to his cave, right? Good. If you go along that cliff east, you’ll eventually see a little brook. Follow that brook north and when you hit a big area-” She spreads her arms out, fingers splayed and down. “-with a sequence of waterfalls, you’ll find Marco. Just call for him then.”

“This is weird. Can’t you tell me what’s going on?”

“It’d take too long to explain. He’ll do it when you get there. For now . . .” She slides off the counter, landing on her feet with a thud. “I guess I’ve done enough hiding, unfortunately. Hopefully they don’t . . . never mind. See you later, Jean.”

“Seeya,” I say a little sadly, watching her go.

She stops at the door, peeks outside, then turns to me again. “And listen. Marco’s not in his right mind right now, so I need you to be as patient as possible for him. Try not to get freaked out, yeah? And don’t make him feel weirder than he already feels. I’m trusting you not to do anything stupid when he can’t defend himself, physically nor mentally.” 

“This, all of this, sounds ominous as hell. And you know I’m not gonna hurt Marco!”

“Oh, don’t worry, it’s normal. This is probably one of the last times you’ll see Marco this year, so try to enjoy his company.” She ducks out then with a wave before I can say anything else, though I utter a vocalization for her to wait, but she doesn’t come back in, leaving me more perturbed than ever.

v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v

Reiner approves my early absence with no trouble at all, though with a joke about my excessive absences on Ymir’s behalf, surely for nefarious and lecherous reasons. I stop home to get a thicker coat and more comfortable boots for the trek, finally changing out of my pajamas and wondering all the time what could possibly be going on with Marco. Not in his right mind? This doesn’t have to do anything with the berserk state, does it? No, it can’t be; if it was, Ymir would’ve warned me for safety’s sake, knowing my incautious ass. But it’s something that might freak me out, so what? Does Marco have some third form? Is this something like when he eats whole deer? 

The sun is high in the sky when I embark into the woods, barely permeating the cold air as I wait until no one’s around to slip out of sight in case someone wants to look for me; I don’t want anyone following me. It’s snowed a couple of times the last few days, but not heavily enough to stick. 

You wouldn’t believe the amount of times you have to walk a certain path to memorize the way. Let me tell you about the woods. It’s full of trees, and trees all look exactly the same. Every stretch of forest, if it doesn’t have random landmarks like a funny-colored boulder or a half-chewed deer corpse with its bones bared for the sun to bleach, looks exactly the same. So you can imagine how easy it is to get lost here! There comes a point every time I make this trek up north where I’m sure I’m lost, thinking, _It didn’t take this long last time, did it?_ or _Did I accidentally go too far west?_ or _Is this some elaborate dream and I’m sleepwalking? Or did I die and go to a neverending hell forest?_

Maybe not so dramatic. But usually right as I begin to panic and tell myself that I’m surely turning around if something doesn’t come up soon, the gap between tree trunks widens and sunlight strikes the swaying green grass of Marco’s glade. 

But I’ve made landmarks for myself, or more specifically taken note of any variation in my path I can. A peculiar copse of trees with only one stem. A low-hanging branch with jagged stumps like thorny blades instead of twigs. A deer trail so well-run it’s turned the earth to sand. A brook barely deep enough to carve a shallow furrow in the dirt beneath, dried up and dead half the time and only sluggishly running at its swiftest. After I memorized things like that the way became simple enough. Maybe one day it’ll become easy enough to be like second nature.

Ymir. What am I supposed to think? She’s been living here almost ten years; how can she not accept our traditions as normal by now? Isn’t there a point where you just . . . assimilate? 

I know Pastor Nick and Nile won’t do anything bad, they’re good people - Ymir’s probably the one giving them hell and just complaining about it - but I can’t fathom why they don’t just leave her and move on to another candidate for the MP.

I wonder what Marco would think of this- though Ymir’s probably filled his head with bad stories and biased assumptions like she did with Reiner. Marco _did_ express interest in learning a second perspective. I find myself wanting to discuss this with him. I mean, sure, killing people always sounds bad, but that’s how it is. 

Trying to keep Ymir’s advice in mind, I manage to make it to Marco’s cave despite my frozen toes, and from there follow the cliff east. If her ass gets me lost and eaten by a bear I’ll physically resurrect myself to drag her to hell with me.

I take a deep breath and holler, “Marco!” as I walk, kicking stones into the creek beside me. “Marco, are you there?” I yell again, listening for an answering call or something. Should I whistle? Maybe I should whistle. 

The further I go, the wider and swifter the creek becomes, until the opposite bank grows too distant to jump and I could almost call it a river. Frozen moss-covered rocks and boulders messily clog the water’s borders, creating shelves of collected earth for sparse ferns to grow and nearby tree roots to anchor. The clear water gurgles and sparkles over swells and depressions in the river’s deep. It’s a pretty sight; I’d even be tempted to dip my feet in if the very thought doesn’t freeze my toes to the bone. 

The forest grows hilly and cliff faces bare themselves as the river cuts through them; I find myself huffing and puffing up and down slopes, sometimes having to creep close to the edge to make sure the river remains below me. At some point I get stuck when a slope looms ahead, too steep for me to climb; I end up backtracking and skittering across the river to its other side over shallow, flat rocks just below the surface, luckily without getting anything more than the soles of my boots wet. If a single drop had touched my socks, it would’ve been over. I’d be on my way home. Sorry, Marco, I’m not about to get frostbitten for you.

I get so lost in the task of following the twists and turns and hills of the pretty river (I even have to cross over it again to the side I was originally on because the fucking woods just won’t quit with the cliffs), as close as I can stay to the water’s edge, that when it rounds a bend I don’t look up until I’m nearly surrounded by cliff. I look up and freeze, mouth open in wonder. Two solid walls of granite cliff, a hundred feet high, form a large circular area and surround the river below, which cuts through the gorge in stratified levels, forming rumbling waterfalls in three places. A wide pond of water, glimmering as its shaking surface forever wavers from the thunder of the lowest waterfall, feeds the stream I was following. The wintered carcasses of varied foliage clings to any surface that isn’t vertical with resilient roots; I wish I could’ve seen this place when the plants had leaves, because it must’ve been something to behold. 

I don’t see my scaly friend. “Marcoooo!” I call over the waterfall’s distant thunder, padding closer carefully; the sandspit by the water is wet and wobbly under my feet, and I’d hate to step too hard and get a shoe full of freezing water. “Marco! Where you at?”

A section of the pond is cut off from the rest by a stripe of crumbled rock and dirt; I use it as a bridge to cross to the gorge’s right side, nearly falling on my ass a few times when a rock was too wet or unstable and gave way beneath me. I take refuge where there’s flora, dead as it is, reasoning the ground has to be more reliable there. I trot closer to the falls, the earth hard beneath me, bare stems scraping against my pants, stepping over bare outcrops of rock. “Helloooo! Anyone here?”

What if Marco went back to his cave? Why would he go outside when it’s so cold? Does Marco even know I’m coming? Fuck me, fuck what Ymir said, I should’ve whistled. “Marco! Oh god, a baba is eating me!” No answer. “I’m dying!” Nothing. “Marco, come on!”

To my left is a ten-foot drop into the pond; to my right is a bare cliff face, heavily pockmarked and dark with bumps and sharp edges. The horizontal shelf I walk upon is a different slab from the vertical part of the cliff, and the deep crack where they meet is about as high as my shoulder in some places and almost as low as my ankles in others, forming a long, shallow rock shelter all along the bottom of the cliff. There’s something dark clumped underneath the overhang, still and unmoving, but it’s about the size of a freckled naga curled into a ball. “Hellooo? Marco, is that you? That better be you. I swear to god, if whatever you are is about to spring out at me . . .”

I jump a foot in the air when the mass moves, anticipating its movement as I am, but my nerves calm when I hear a low groan. Is this guy even capable of replying to a call with anything but a groan? “Heeey, finally! Christ, I’ve been calling you forever, dude. You okay?”

I trot up to the cliff and stoop down, reaching in and tapping his cold scales. He’s hiding his human part in his snake coils. The part I touched shies away from me with a sudden movement and I teeter back, hand raised. “Whoop, shit. Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. Are you okay? Your sister told me to come and check on you, whatever that means, but you look fine to me, so if you don’t mind I’m gonna kick her ass when I get home. This is a weird place to take a nap, by the way. Doesn’t the waterfall noise keep you awake? I mean, it’s not that loud, and I’m not judging your choices, but how can you fall asleep with that rumble in the background?”

As I chatter Marco unravels himself and reaches out with an arm, dragging himself out from under the cliff with slow movements, his head bowed. His black hair is disheveled and frizzy, which is weird, because as curly as his hair gets he brushes it often and it’s never really knotty like that. “Aw, shit, I didn’t bring a brush this time. Can you hear me? I’m talking to you here. I just-”

I cut myself off and jerk back with a startled wheeze when Marco lifts his head and opens his eyes. His eyes are blank and featureless, a milky blue-white, completely hiding his iris and pupil. 

I scramble back further as he pulls himself out from under the cliff, my mind flying back to the last time his eyes were nearly uniform in one color. “M- are you berserk? H-Hey, Marco!”

He screws up his face and rubs it with his hand, wobbling as he leans on his other arm. “Jean?” he croaks, his voice hoarse like he’s got a cough. He waves his hand in front of his face, his snake tongue flitting out rapidly. 

“What happened to your eyes? Are you blind?”

Marco’s hand hits the dirt again with a slap, the corners of his mouth downturned. _“Yes,”_ he sighs, head (and gaze, presumably) focused a little to my right. He emerges more and lifts his human torso off the ground, swinging it low in a slow arc and squinting, like a curious neck letting its head look at something thoroughly. “Where’d you go?”

“Right here,” I say, plopping back on my ass and dusting myself off, my heartbeat still racing. Berserk Marco’s solid gold eyes flash behind mine. “Oh my god, what happened to you?” They look like the eyes of a blind old dog that used to follow people around in the plaza, begging for food and pets. 

Marco, clearly unable to find me, gropes his hand around, and I offer mine. He brushes against my hand, then grabs it, drawing closer to me. His intensely white eyes, formerly so dark, are so unnerving I almost have to look away. “You sound worried.”

“Well, yeah! Holy shit, you’re blind!”

He chuckles, but I get the feeling he doesn’t find it funny. “You don’t need to worry. I’ll be un-blind in a few days, I’m just . . .” He trails off with a sigh, patting up my arm to my shoulder. “You’re freezing.”

“And you’re blind! Why are you blind?”

“I’m just shedding,” he grumbles, then suddenly collapses his human torso across my lap. Whoa, okay there, Marco. He rolls stiffly onto his back, wiggling around until his head is pillowed on my thigh, then sighs like he’s a million years old. “And tired, and hungry and cold . . .”

My hands hover by my head, not really sure where to put them, or even what to do about the sudden weight on my lap. I settle on stiffly placing them at my sides. “Uh.”

“Can I sleep? Can I sleep here?” he groans bluntly, blinking his blind eyes up at me. If I look close, I can just see the border of his pupil against his iris under that eerie whiteness. ”I’m so tired, Jean.”

“Why . . . what. Marco, can you explain this to me in terms I’ll understand?”

“Didn’t Ymir tell you what happens when I shed?”

“Yeah, no. She said _you_ would.”

“She should have!”

“Well, she didn’t!”

“Ugh,” Marco groans, his voice squeaking a little at the end; he doesn’t seem to have much control over it, like it gets when you wake up in the middle of the night and you’re too tired to focus. “I go blind because- because I’m all wet and soggy and _god I feel so ughhh-”_ He covers his face with his hands, mumbling something imperceptible behind them. He opens his hands to blink dazedly up at me. “Sorry. Do you know what shedding is at all?”

“Uhh, isn’t it when your hair comes out?”

“My scales come out- no, off. My scales come off every once in a while because that is how scales grow, they just . . .” He wiggles his hands in front of his face. “They grow under the old scales, then sometimes the old scales pull off and the new scales are there. Am I even speaking Idem? I’m sorry, I cannot think of anything at all right now. Can I just sleep?”

“No, don’t fall asleep! What does this have to do with being blind?”

Marco whines and screws up his face. “There’s a- a- I can’t even remember, I’m so tired. I’m so tired . . . but when I try to sleep, I can’t see, I don’t know what’s around me-”

“Okay, okay, you can sleep. Man, when’s the last time you slept?” I breathe, bending over him to squint at the dark bags beneath his eyes. He’s paler than usual, and that’s not just from the lack of sun. His hands come to rest on his lower stomach, and I see that they’re shaking. 

“Few . . . few days ago.”

“Marco!” I exclaim. “You haven’t slept in _days?_ Why?”

“I don’t feel good, sleeping out here,” Marco whines pathetically. “Every noise is scary.”

“Oh my god, you big baby- okay, look, you want . . . you want me to stick around while you sleep?” 

Marco screws up his face, but nods. “Sorry,” he groans. “If you had plans today. T-Tell me them when I wake up. An’ how your day was . . .”

“Okay, uh . . .” I look around for something to lean against; the base of my neck is already aching from leaning over Marco with nothing to hold me up. Eyeing a nearby tree that’s tilted so that its canopy hangs over the water, I nudge Marco off of me and grab his hand, tugging him after me. “C’mon, sleepy.”

I have to haul him a few feet before he starts slithering on his own; hey, if he took the initiative to throw himself face-first on my crotch, I’m going to take the liberty of dragging the dude, okay? I shove him back with my palm on his forehead when he tries to keep on slithering to stop him from running straight into the tree and kneel down, contemplating it. The bark doesn’t look _too_ scratchy, and there’s even a funny knot around head-height that I can probably lean my head against if my neck gets tired. I turn around and sit against it, leaning back. The ground is frozen and frigid, and the bark hard and unforgiving, but it’ll do. I lean forward and tug on a strand of Marco’s bangs, whipping my hand back when he swipes at me with a grumble. “All right, c’mere.”

Marco grabs my outstretched hand, using it to guide himself to me, then flops on my lap like he did before. I’m starting to accept this as normal at this point. Like an old man turning in bed he shifts and slides, shoulders nudging, snake body arcing up and hitting the hard ground in little frustrated waves, until Marco’s on his back, head pillowed on my lap and sighing. He shuts his eyes and groans again. “H-Hey, you can wake me up if you need to move.”

“I’ll let you know,” I reply, my hands kind of hovering in the air until he settles down, then letting them rest on the ground on either side of me - that is, until I touch the freezing carpet of leaves beneath me and grimace. I cross my arms over my chest, fingers jammed into my armpits. “Night.”

Marco locks his fingers together and stretches his arms to the sky above him, then relaxes; his torso moves and hovers a little as his snake body situates itself in circles around me, coils shoving over my calves and bunching up on either sides of me. I wiggle my feet around, making sure my blood flow isn’t going to get cut off by the mass of Marco’s body. He’s not heavy at all (actually his snake body is kind of eerily light, despite being a very solid pressure) but there’s thirty feet of him, and he just clumped most of it on top of me. This is the kind of stuff he only does with Ymir; delirious and sleep-drunk as he is, it still reassures me that he actually likes and trusts me enough to clamber all over me. 

Such an interesting day this is.

Holy shit, is Marco sleeping already? His head is tilted to the side away from me, his puffed eyes shut and mouth slightly ajar, not revealing much more than chapped lips and the bottoms of his two front teeth. I wonder where his snake tongue is. Maybe one day he’ll deign to show me, since he’s so secretive. How can I make him less so, complimenting his more unique qualities? Marco, your scales are looking extra shiny today. Your jaw is looking very stretchy this evening. 

I tip my head back instead of staring at his face like a creeper, looking at the craggy lip of the granite high above me. Thin, precariously-balanced trees, white and lifeless, hang in dense clumps over the edge of the cliff high above me, with lifeless roots of a stronger stuff than time and erosion to keep them there through the winter. I watch a trio of birds flit from the cliff above to a tree on the shelf I rest on, perching on branches for only seconds at a time before shuffling to new ones, like they can’t be content with where they are. 

I didn’t bring anything to keep my hands or head busy, so I daydream for a while, watching wispy clouds float by high above through the icy blue sky, keeping some amount of warmth as my face gets used to the chill and my hands seek snug refuge in my armpits. I go still for the two or three times that Marco shifts so as not to disturb him, rousing only to swallow or tilt his head to a different side before going still again. Is it just me, or is he getting a little bit warmer (this information was collected through a discreet touch to his shoulder)? Am I, the walking icicle, keeping him that warm? Well, good for us. Seems I am capable of some heat generation. 

I can’t believe Ymir made me come out here just to turn me into Marco’s pillow. Okay, Marco looks really peaceful right now, and I’m glad he’s comfortable, but . . . well, but nothing. I just can’t believe Ymir bade me become the scary village naga’s pillow.

Hah! Scary. Look at him. Could danger come from such a gentle face? What, is he going to smile someone to death? 

Imagine Armin finding Marco. I entertain that trail of thought for a while, closing my eyes because I’ve exhausted everything within my field of vision. Would Armin tattle on him, or become his friend? Marco could take Armin to the ocean, oh, Armin would kiss his tail for that. For some reason, between Marco’s unassuming friendliness and Armin’s quiet intellect, I could picture them becoming pretty good friends.

I open my eyes again, peeking down at Marco. His head is tilted and tucked toward his right shoulder, his hands crossed neatly over his stomach. I can’t believe he put off sleep for entire days. I’m going to have to have a serious chat with this young man. If he doesn’t feel right sleeping in the open, he can’t be going out _gallivanting_ and losing-

losing-

los

Marco’s not breathing.

Oh my god, Marco is not _breathing._

I stare at his chest so hard I could resuscitate him with just my eyes, waiting to be absolutely sure I have something to panic about. Five seconds tick by. Marco’s chest does not move. Please, oh please, let this be a snake thing. Ten seconds . . . fifteen. Okay, oh my god, he’s not breathing. Marco is not breathing.

I lean forward and grab him and he springs to life, his arms jerking up in front of his face. “Whabigit!”

“Oohh my _god,”_ I huff, slapping a hand to my chest and clutching it. “A-Are you okay? What the fuck? Dude, you stopped breathing.”

Marco leans up, squinting around like he has no idea where he is, then flops back down and closes his eyes. “H-Hey!” I exclaim, grabbing his arm and pulling it. “What the hell was that?”

“Was _whaatttt,”_ Marco rasps, squeezing his eyes shut.

“You weren’t breathing! At all!”

“It normal.”

“It’s normal? It’s normal for you not to _breathe?”_

“Go t’sleep,” he slurs, rolling stiffly away from me until his back faces me. He thumps his head around until it’s comfortably settled on my thigh just above my knee, then goes still, chest rising and falling in a big shuddery sigh. 

I lean forward to hover over his shoulder, squinting at his face. “Hey, you’re fuckin’ weird.”

His hand lolls up and back to swat in my general direction before falling limply in front of him. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

My back hits the tree trunk again with a thud as I cross my arms, heart rate still pretty fast, staring at Marco’s back. I watch the dome of his ribs and the slope of his waist with borderline frantic eyes, practically burning a hole in his skin, and I exhale a sigh of relief as, about thirty seconds in, Marco’s chest swells with a slow breath, then relaxes. At the same time a section of his snake body also inflates, then deflates in sync with his human half. Another long pause ensues, then the cycle repeats.

Maybe it’s because Marco’s so big, and apparently has more than two lungs, judging by the movement of his snake body as well as his human torso. Whatever! I’m used to weird shit with Marco at this point. Almost had a heart attack, it’s fine. Shit, he’s fucking _blind._ Nothing is stranger than that right now. 

A curve of his snake body, toward the end, is near my left elbow; inside a coil I can see the very tip of his tail sticking up into the air, resting against his own side. I reach for it, careful not to jostle Marco, and grab it; I drag it toward me and squint at it. The tip is as thick as my thumb and hard and dense; I pick at the tiny scales running up and down its surface, each about as big as a fingernail. I pull it forward a little more, dragging more of his snake body closer and frowning as part of it rolls over to expose the lighter scales of his belly. Is it just me, or are his scales not usually this dull? Did the belly ones always have that odd blue sheen, almost iridescent, like there’s something dark beneath the ivory? Marco’s tail flexes, pulling at the tip in his sleep; I tug back, and he rips his tail out of my hands with a twitch of his scaly hindquarters, with not a shift of his human half. “Fine,” I huff. _“Don’t_ let me have fun.”

I tilt my head back, now officially run out of things to amuse myself. I gaze up at the clouds, watching them slowly drift by, and I don’t know when or how I fell asleep, but maybe the thunder of the waterfall behind me turned soothing instead of distracting, and I jolt awake when Marco shifts in his sleep as well, rolling a coil of his body against my thigh. I suck in a big breath through my nose and rub my eyes, yawning. My eyelids feel heavy and my mind sluggish, the opposite of rested after an afternoon nap. My ass is really starting to hurt, and the base of my neck, though I _swear_ I’m resting it flat on the bark, keeps getting more and more sore. 

Marco slowly rolls closer to me from his side to his back, wriggling his shoulders to get more comfortable on my thigh and keeping his eyes closed. You know, the more I look at him, the more I kind of want to _draw_ him. Is that strange? I haven’t drawn a thing in years, but I really want to bust out the pencil and capture his likeness. I’d be the first one to do so, and I can imagine Marco would jump at the chance to be- wait. Would he like being drawn, or feel self-conscious if put down on paper? Both are equally plausible. It’s enough to make me banish the thought for now (not to mention, Marco might be one of those people that’s always like, “Oh my god, draw me!” or, “Draw this!” which, trust me, gets real old real quick). 

Marco’s awfully handsome, now that I study him. I mean, I’ve been studying him this whole time, but the back of his head is practically on my dick at the moment, and that’s the kind of position that just begs for one’s attention. Ymir’s face and features are angular, full of triangles. Marco’s face shape is much more square. Strong jaw and chin, wide forehead, big, expressive eyes, and a button-like nose. His black hair is really thick (I know because Marco’s a prime target for hair-ruffling; poor boy’s just so trusting when you call him over to “show him something”) and, when it’s brushed, looks practically inky. Very tempting to try and recreate with charcoal or something similar. I trace the outline of his face with my eyes, mentally planning it out.

Marco’s eyes open, staring sightlessly into the clouds. “Prince?”

I open my mouth to say something, but can’t think of how to respond. “Prince, are you there?” Marco asks again, his voice taking on an odd lilt that mixes strangely with his accent. His fingers rove over the dirt, questing out to feel for something.

“Um . . .”

Marco jumps, his whole body jerking with surprise at the sound of my voice. “Ymir . . . ? No, Jean.” He lifts his head up, squinting around, then thumps his head back on my thigh. “Hi, Jean.”

“Hey. What did you just call me?”

Marco stretches his arms out in front of him, linked at the fingers. “What, Jean?”

“No, ‘Prince.’ You just called me ‘Prince.’”

Marco’s face screws up in confusion, his head tilted vaguely toward me. “I did?”

“Yeah, why?”

He shrugs. His voice has returned to its usual inflection, and is much less groggy. “I don’t know. Also, were you touching my tail before? I dreamed you picked my tail up but I’m not sure if that was real.”

“Oh, yeah, I did do that. Hey, so like . . . ?”

I trail off as Marco’s snake body ripples to form a big circle, movements stiff and jerky; he lifts his human torso off me and shrugs some leaves off of his back, hovering almost ten feet off the ground. “And you shook me once. Was that a dream too?”

I lean forward to stretch my back, arching it forward and groaning as my spine cracks. “No, that was real too. Why the fuck do you breathe so weird?”

“I don’t know that either.”

“You could’ve warned me about that! I thought I was gonna start bawling. How do you feel?”

 _“So_ much better,” he sighs, lowering his human half more to the ground, then waving his arms around. “Uh, where are you?”

I stand, rubbing my sore neck, and grab his wrist, tugging him to my side, where he locks his arm around mine. “Why would you have bawled?” he asks.

“Because I thought you died on me or some shit! I was terrified!”

He pats around my shirt with his free hand, then, after apparently feeling where my shoulder is, rests his head on it, grinning. “Aww, do you care about me, Jean?”

“Oh, yeah, obviously, my heart just _races_ at the thought of you.” I stab his head with my chin, which I’ve been told is very sharp, and the reputation apparently lives on as Marco yelps and pulls away to rub his hair. 

I open my mouth to ask Marco about what he said again, but he speaks before I do. “I mean, I hope you care about me after all this time. I care about you. Why did you come and not Ymir?”

“She got . . .” Ymir’s despondent face flashes behind my eyes, and my mood sobers. “. . . held up.”

“Is that a good ‘held up’ or a bad ‘held up’?” 

“Not entirely sure, to be honest. C’mon, why the hell did you come all the way out here to be miserable? Let’s go back to your cave.”

“I need water,” he grumbles, but he starts slithering, arm in arm with me. I guide him through the grass on the smoothest path I can, instructing him to lift himself over sharp rocks and logs and things, and warning him of the precarious nature of the terrain closest to the water. If I follow the river in the opposite direction, I should be able to get to Marco’s cave easily.

Well into the trek back, as I fret over Marco slowly navigating his body down a steep slope, hooking his body around trees to keep himself from rolling, I’m like, “Oh, yeah! What the hell’s with the blind thing? You said you were shedding?”

“Oh, I didn’t tell you? I can’t remember a thing. I was so sleep-deprived.” Marco clutches my arm a little tighter and grimaces as we skid down a patch of leaves (he reacted better; I uttered a little scream). “Get us to level ground first before you question me.”

“So demanding!” The stream’s water bubbles next to us as my aching calves get a rest as I reach level ground, pulling Marco after me. “Who was it that graciously lent you his lap so you could take a snooze, huh? I don’t usually offer my legs so easily, you know.”

“Oh, I’m _so_ grateful for your thin thighs and knobby knees . . . absolutely terrible pillow, by the way . . .”

“Marco!” I exclaim, laughing and knocking my shoulder into his. “I’m two seconds from just leaving you out here to find your own way back home.”

“Don’t! I take it back. You’re a good pillow, even if you do never stop fucking around.” 

“Dude, it is so weird when you’re talking to me, but not, like, looking me in the face. Now answer my question! What’s with the shedding thing and why does it make you blind?”

Marco sighs and lets out a frustrated groan, but I get the feeling it’s not at me. “I’m _shedding_ and all my skin is gonna come off soon-”

“What the fuck?!”

“Let me finish or you’ll get confused and interrupt me more. Well, I misspoke, it isn’t my skin that’s coming off. See, when . . . oh, _molting occurs periodically throughout a snake's life before a molt the snake stops eating and often hides or moves to a safe place just before shedding the skin becomes dull and dry looking and the eyes become cloudy or blue-colored the inner surface of the old skin liquefies this causes the old skin to separate-”_

“Okay, Marco, holy christ,” I cut in. “Your voice just, like, sped up and got really monotone. Can you talk like a damn human being?”

He hesitates, blinking, and I think, _Shit!_ That was an asshole thing for me to say. “I mean-”

“It’s like . . .” He trails off, sounding like he’s about to explain, and I inwardly breathe a sigh of relief; I was afraid I was going to make him sad by pointing out that . . . well . . . he’s not technically a human being. “Have you ever had a sunburn?”

“Yeah, shit, I burn like nothin’ alive.”

“Have you ever had it so bad that your skin comes off afterwards?”

“Oh my _god,_ yeah. Dude, listen, once I fell asleep on my roof, and it was summertime, and I had shorts on, and the tops of my thighs-” I bend over, gripping the front of my pants legs, as if he could see that. “-got _so fucking red_ and, like, I got these huge blisters-”

“Ew!”

“-all over my legs, and then when they popped- I’m gonna stop now. Go on.”

“Thank you. Definitely not related to what I’m telling you- but I appreciate the contribution! Oh, that sounds so painful.”

“For a whole year afterward my skin came off in sheets in the bath. It was brutal.”

“Don’t make me throw up on you. Where was I?”

“Sunburns?”

“Oh yes, right! My scales come off like sunburn skin sometimes. I hate it, I really do, because it’s weird and I really wish I didn’t have to do it . . .” He’s screwing up his face like he expects me to call him names, his grip on my arm tightening.

“Yeah, come on, dude, I know,” I chide gently. “Honestly, I’m picturing it right now and it’s not even the weirdest thing you do- not that you do a lot of weird things! But it doesn’t sound that bad. Go on.”

Marco huffs out a little breath, looking more relaxed. “I did it more often when I was younger- almost once a month, so it was kind of like a period, and in my books that are all written about reptiles they say snakes shed more as they grow, so that is evidence to support that. Have you ever seen a bug molt . . . ? Wait, don’t answer that, please, I think I’ll stay away from saying examples because you keep getting confused. I shed because the scales don’t grow with me, so I have to grow new ones every so often as I get bigger, and after a while of this-” He gestures at himself, at his blind eyes. “-the whole thing comes off like a sock turning inside out.”

“Does it hurt?!” 

“Not really pain. It’s like . . . well, peeling off a very, very resilient scab very, very slowly.”

“A huge scab that takes up almost your whole body.”

“Yeah!”

The river’s gotten steadily thinner and less rambunctious beside us as we stroll along, arm in arm, Marco stiff and grimacing and me just I don’t know enjoying this fuckin’ day. I look over my shoulder at Marco’s snake body, squinting at it. It’s cold as a larder but the sun’s still out, and the trees lack leaves; Marco’s scales should be shining a little more, right?

“Okay, now that we took forever to get to the point,” I snort, “why _exactly_ are your eyes like that . . . ?”

“Ah. _That.”_ I snicker, Marco’s sagacious and world-weary tone juxtaposing his general ridiculousness. “To get the scales off, they come off me because . . . how do I phrase this. This stuff, this liquid-” He points right at his open eyes, his pupils _just_ discernible, unfocused somewhere over my head. “-unsticks the scales from me, and since my eye caps count as scales, they also get unstuck with this liquid. If the liquid’s in my eyes it means it’s here as well.” He taps the meat of his hand on the scales where his hip would be. 

I only halfway understand it, but I don’t think he can clarify much better than that. “Is that why you’re so dull? Oh my god, no, not you, I mean your scales.”

“Oh, you noticed? Yes, it is. I’ll be like this for a couple of days, then maybe a day or two after that I’ll actually shed.”

“Yeah, it wasn’t too obvious, but I had a lot of free time when you were lying down . . . okay, you look terrible. Like someone dumped a bucket of icy fuckin’ water on you. Are you in pain right now or something?”

“It’s not _pain,_ it’s . . .” He actually stops slithering, but pouts and oscillates his body rapidly in place, like a person stamping their feet in frustration. Leaves loudly protest under his coils. “I feel sticky and soggy like wearing wet clothes, but I’m still _dry,_ it’s so _frustrating._ Soaking in water helps before the blindness - that’s why I like going to the falls - but then when I’m blind it just makes things feel worse, so I can’t soak . . .”

“Wait, how long have you been blind?” I ask, tugging him back into motion with me and squinting around, surrounded by monochrome trees. Marco’s hill that he suns himself on is closer than before, looming over our right (is that the outcropping where Marco basks, way up there casting a dark shadow beneath its black and reaching rock? Why, I think it is!). Oh, fuck, I hope I can find Marco’s cave from this direction! This hilly area looks familiar, at least, and the way rock walls rise out of them.

“I can’t see anything except light and dark, and it was . . . maybe a few days?”

“And you can’t move around when blind, right? Marco, were you cooped up by those waterfalls for days?”

“Maybe . . .”

I gape at him, then when I realize he can’t see my indignation I nudge him and yowl, “Marco! Oh my god, you’ve gotta eat and shit! Don’t tell me you were drinking that dirty-ass pool water next to the falls-”

“Maybe-”

“Oh my god! Here, let’s-” I breathe a sigh of relief as I sight a familiar break in the granite wall; guiding Marco up from the little depression in front of his cave, pointing out where the roots splay rigid and jagged before the entrance so he doesn’t run his belly scales into them, I ferry him inside and into his bed. “Okay, so will you be okay? Do you need me to do anything else or whatever? Food?”

Marco trails his fingertips along the lip of his kidney bean-shaped bed-bowl, shuffling his whole body into it, groping around the surface of the blankets within for his favorites. “Can you see the chest between my shelves over there?” He points in the completely wrong direction, but luckily I can see the one he means. “There’s some venison in there and jars of water. Can you put them next to my bed?”

There isn’t much light shining into his cave at this time of the day, and I have to wait for my eyes to adjust before walking over, but I do as he asks. The chest’s (thickly made and airtight to prevent animals from catching the scent of any food within) heavy lid thuds back against the cave wall once I figure out the latch in the near-dark, squinting and turning things over to find what he needs. Jars of spices like black peppercorn, pickled fruits and vegetables, as well as a metal tub (that I snooped inside) full of ice and lemons clank and ting as I shuffle them around in search of meat. Five, six, seven jars of clear water (who is this thirsty? Good lord) get placed at my feet as I finally find a few strips of hard jerky, dark and wrinkly and speckled with salt, wrapped in thin cloth. “How much jerky do you want?”

“I want everything that’s in there,” Marco’s tired voice replies.

“You got it.” After closing and latching his food chest, in two trips I set everything next to Marco, who’s curled himself in a loose ball, his human half leaning against the lip of the bed on a pillow and most of his snake body buried beneath blankets. His eyelids droop; his hair falls over his face.

He feels around for the food and wrenches a bite out of a jerky strip, chewing slowly. Only when he swallows (Ymir sharpened him up on waiting until his mouth isn’t full to talk when speaking a while ago) (I can’t believe it was less than two months ago that I looked on in bewildered disgust as the scary naga offered me bread I’d baked with a full mouth) he asks, “Are you staying here or going back to Trost? I’m about to sleep again, so I won’t be good company.”

“I figured I’d head back, if you don’t need anything else. It’s cold as hell, man. My fingers are about to break off.”

Marco chuckles, sliding down deeper into his bed and rolling onto his back. “You can go. And thank you, Jean,” he adds in earnest, “for taking care of me and letting me sleep on your lap. When I can’t see every little noise keeps me awake, so thank you for making me feel safe.”

The weird wording and plain sincerity makes me feel awkward, so of course I deflect it into jokes. “What the hell, that’s so cute.” I squat down and ruffle his bangs roughly, earning a yell. “Hey, don’t even worry about it or whatever.”

“I can’t _see,_ that one is _not_ fair!” Marco protests, covering his head.

“All right, _fine,_ god you earned a free one,” I grumble with exaggerated irritation, leaning forward on my knees over him and grabbing his hand to stick it in my hair. He sticks his tongue out and grins and ruffles it triumphantly. “Yeah, okay, live it up- OW don’t tug on it, bastard! I’m ending this battle right here. _Goodbye.”_

“Have a safe trip back home!” Marco calls as I stand and head for the exit. “Don’t let your fingers break off!”

“Eat that fuckin’ jerky before you attract a bear or something; I am _not_ fighting one off for you!”

“You would because you caaare about meee!”

“Goodbye, Marco!” I holler pointedly, but it’s a different name, a royal name that rebounds around my head all the way home.

v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v

It’s getting dark by the time I reach Trost again, and no one wants to be out in the dark _and_ the cold; people are closing up shop, lighting candles to illuminate their packing up and offer some meager measure of warmth on this frosty evening. I stop by the bakery to help Reiner close up shop and ask him if Ymir had stopped by at all today, to which he shakes his head; I try to hide my worry, unable to decide whether she’s _still_ being held up by the MP or she just went home. I grab that table loaf I promised her and wave Reiner goodbye as I head to her house, my breath fogging up around my face as I practically jog. When I get home, if I still have enough solitude and light, I might just bust out the old sketchbook and try drawing some things. 

I hop up Ymir’s porch steps, dancing in place as I knock on her doorframe. “Ymiiiir!” I yowl. “Open up, it’s me!”

What am I going to do if she’s not home after all? Leave this on her stoop? Nah, the raccoons will get it sure as seasons. I don’t think I have the mental fortitude to attempt extricating her from the MP base either; the sheer intimidation factor of my potential future workplace is enough to make me give the building a wide berth. “Ymir! You want me to freeze out here, huh? Remember we talked about dinner?”

Her front door opens inward, then the storm door swings out. _“Finally,_ good god, you know how much I _fucking_ hate the-”

Eren.

“-cold.” Oh. We blink at each other, me with my hand still raised to bang on the door again, he with his hand on the knob like he’s confused at what I’m doing here. Brilliant me has nothing to say - what would I say? - so I blurt, “’Sup.”

“. . . ‘Sup.” Eren’s gaze flits from my face to the wrapped-up loaf under my arm, then back. “We’re closed.”

“I-I’m not here to buy something.” What the fuck is even going on? Little half-phrases I could say, as well as the fuzzily-formed faces of my friends (can I even call them my friends?) like Armin and Sasha swim behind my eyes, nothing substantial I can bring forth into words. Fuck Eren right now, I came here for a purpose, something uncomplicated I can focus on. “Yeah, uh, ‘scuse me, I gotta bug Ymir-” I shoulder my way past Eren (wow, the closest I’ve been to him in forever; I’m surprised he doesn’t make more of an attempt to stop me besides opening his mouth and staring harder) and stroll into Ymir’s house. “Ymir, where the fuck!”

Rose meows from the couch. “Hi, Rosie! I love you,” I coo, then swing my middle finger down at the red eyes peering out from under the kitchen table, “and fuck you, whatever-your-name-is-because-I-forgot-it- starts with an A, though- Ymir!”

“What?” an answering yowl sounds from behind her bedroom door, and Ymir emerges, her hair down and waving around her shoulders, not wearing any pants. “What, what’s your problem?”

“You stood me up for our dinner date! Go put pants on, I’m getting cold just looking at you.” With another grumble Ymir spins around and disappears back into her room, hair spinning in a fan behind her instead of in a long rope like it normally would in a ponytail. I throw myself down on the couch next to Rose, making her bounce a little. She doesn’t seem to mind, instead shutting her eyes and rolling onto her back, her round little face completely content. Cats have it so easy.

Eren is still standing at the doorway, staring at me like I’ve grown a second head. “What?” I demand harshly - and regret it. I don’t have the energy to fight right now. Have I mentioned I talk really fast when I’m nervous? Because, oh boy, nothing sets my nerves alight quite like feeling like I’m being judged by Eren fucking Jaeger. Man, I haven’t used his full official name in a while. Probably because of Marco fucking Bodt.

“Ymir, do you want me to kick him out?” he calls instead. Excuse me?! I have more of a right to be here than you, and you work here, you goddamn fucking-

“God, no,” Ymir says, shutting her bedroom door behind her and crossing over to me on the couch. Is she in sleepwear already? She flops down next to me, leaning back against the arm of the sofa and swinging her legs up into my lap, crossed elegantly at the ankles. “Can’t you tell he’s my little boyfriend? Look at him, bringing gifts for little old me.”

I tickle the bottom of her right foot in revenge, making her jump and yelp. “Ew, god, please don’t start telling people we’re dating.”

“You can go now, Eren,” Ymir sighs, gesturing outward with her left hand as she rubs her eyes with the other. “I gotta talk to boyfriend here.” 

I watch Eren deliberate, my stomach tense, my jaw set, before he eventually gets his coat, hung on the upturned leg of a wicker chair in the middle of the pile on Ymir’s floor, and leaves with a wave. Little by little my muscles relax, hurried along by the warm weight of Rose settling against my thigh and purring, practically making my whole leg vibrate. I pet her head gratefully.

Boy, what a day.

Ymir wiggles her toes in my lap. “Now, I’m not the most observant person,” she starts, which is a humungous lie, “but is that not the first you’ve seen Eren in, like, thirty years?”

“Miiiight be. Wait, I saw him today at the execution!”

“Nah, nah, but here you just made eye contact! Exchanged words!” Now that Eren’s gone, her voice morphs easily back into that accent she naturally sports, her “th”s turning to “d”s, her “oh”s turning to “uh”s, the emphasis she places on words shifting all across the letters until they feel like completely different words, had I not gotten used to this accent already through Marco’s thicker pronunciation. 

“Yeah, don’t talk like it’ll be a regular thing,” I huff, scratching the side of Rose’s gray head. “I didn’t know he was here.” I squint at her from the side. “Why _was_ he here?”

“We were f-”

“Don’t say ‘fucking’!”

 _“-finishing_ packing up, oh my god, assumption much? Rosie, c’mere!” she calls, patting her stomach. “Rosieee, love me, c’mon!” Rose makes an adorable noise and heaves her fat little body to her feet, padding over my thighs and up Ymir’s body to flop in the crook of her arm. “My little baby! By the way, why are you so frightened of my sex life?”

“Because Eren is fifteen, you’re seventy, and that’s downright predatory?”

“You’re _so_ concerned for his welfare, Jean. Good thing he has someone like you to look after him.”

“Your brother is blind, by the way,” I cut in, annoyed, “but otherwise he’s fine. He cooped himself up near those dumb waterfalls while he was blind! He can’t be doing that - what if he couldn’t get home?”

“He does that sometimes when he sleeps too long and gets blind before he can get to his cave. I had a feeling he would do that. He’s all right, though? You did bring him back?”

“Yeah, no, don’t even worry, he’s fine. I got to the waterfall place and he was just trying to sleep, so we stayed there for a while so he could sleep on my lap, then I took him to his cave. Was I supposed to do anything else for him? I gave him the food and water he asked for, but, like . . . take him for a walk? Change his bedding? What?”

“He’s not a dog,” Ymir scolds, so I refrain from laughing at my own joke. That was kind of asshole-ish. “As long as you did what he asked, you’re fine.”

“So . . .” I start talking quickly just to cover up that bad joke that just slipped out. “His scales come off ‘like a sock turning inside out’, he said.”

“Yes indeed. The new coat is so shiny! And the process itself is pretty cool-looking, if you ask me. Not that I remember too well, anyway. He doesn’t let me watch anymore - says it’s too weird.” She shakes her head. “As if I haven’t already seen it all.”

“He needs his privacy,” I hum. 

“Bad news, by the way, Jim. Can you make it out to this Wednesday?”

“What? Yeah, of course. What’s bad news?”

“That’s the last visit of the season,” Ymir hums grimly. “It’s too cold for Marco to stick around anymore, so he’s gonna- oh shit. Did I ever tell you what _brumating_ is?”

“No?” I answer, alarmed at the “last visit” bit. Oh my god, what now? Big words mean big meanings (wow, what a coherent thought, Kirschtein). What could be worse than being able to smell emotions, periodically going blind and slough body parts off, and gobbling down deer whole?

“Okay.” Ymir pauses for almost ten seconds as she apparently formulates her response. This better be a doozy. “It’s basically hibernation, but for reptiles.”

“Marco _hibernates?”_

“No, he brumates. See, you know how cold he gets, and how it fucks up how he moves? He doesn’t do well in the _cold_ cold. So he goes to sleep for the winter and wakes up in the spring and everything’s all good.”

“So . . . so we’re not visiting him at all in the winter? I thought we were . . .” My heart sinks at this. Just when I began enjoying myself, all of it has to end? 

It takes me a moment to realize I wasn’t thinking about the archery lessons.

“I will to check on him, but not as often. There’s no point, since he’ll be asleep. It’s not something you have to worry about.” Ymir leans her head back on the arm of the couch, gazing up at the ceiling as she rubs idle circles into Rose’s head. “But back to Marco in the present day. How about when you first saw him? He was so sleep-deprived, right? Could barely speak, right?”

Chary to reveal how perturbed I am, I say in a rush, “Yeah, it was eerie! I mean, I guess I know a little of how that feels. I once stayed up all night, like, I don’t even remember what I was doing, but I didn’t sleep until the next night and I just couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t concentrate on anything, even talking. I actually started hearing things.”

“And imagine what was going on in Marco’s head, huh? He can go for several days, just because being blind makes him feel so insecure.”

“Poor guy. He shouldn’t be keeping food in his cave, by the way. What if a bear smells it?”

“The chest where he keeps his food is airtight! It doesn’t smell!”

“Yeah, well, I’ve been thinking about a bear mauling him like all day and it’s scaring the shit out of me. You’d better be ri- OH MY GOD, Ymir! He fucking stopped breathing and-”

“How was he acting when he hadn’t slept yet?” Ymir cuts in, _totally_ interrupting my amazing tale about how I almost died when I thought Marco stopped breathing. 

“What do you mean?”

“I mean . . . what did he do, what did he say, things like that.”

That’s oddly specific, but she might just be checking on his health or something. “He was just kind of loopy.” A feeling of sudden disquiet settles on me when I remember something else. “Wait, uh.” Ymir’s eyes are locked on me. “Well, this is kind of random, but when he woke up he called me a strange name.”

“What name?”

“He called me ‘Prince.’ And he asked me where I was, even though he was lying right on me. I don’t know, his voice started sounding weird. What’s with that?”

Ymir straightens up; Rose makes a little noise of protest and reaches up with an outstretched paw. “What exactly did he say to you, verbatim?” 

“Oh, uh,” I say in a quiet voice at her sudden interest. “He just said, ‘Prince,’ and then something like, ‘Where are you.’ Wait, no! He said, ‘Are you there?’ It was really weird.”

“And then what?”

“Then I kind of made a noise and he jumped like he was waking up for the first time. He said he didn’t remember calling me Prince, and I mean, it’s a great compliment, ‘cause I don’t blame him for mistaking me for royalty, but-”

“And he didn’t mention Prince at all, aside from that?”

“No, he didn’t.” I reach over to pet Rose because I feel like I’m discussing something bigger than I realize and I don’t know what to do about it. “So is that a thing with him, or . . . ?”

Ymir sucks in a deep breath through her nose, settling down again from her alert position. “So,” she begins, “I’m sure you’ve noticed Marco talks to himself sometimes, right?”

“Yeah, even when we’re around. Like, he continues the conversation.”

“He’s not talking to himself. Not really.” Ymir crosses her hands over her stomach. “He talks to this person he calls The Prince. Like an imaginary friend, though I don’t think he’s made up.”

That almost makes my hair stand up. “What do you mean?”

“Let me get to it. Have you noticed he’s almost called _you_ Prince too?”

I almost deny it, but then think back his tired and timid behavior when I first had to walk him up to bask, and just before he let me touch his scales, and after he saved me from the baba. He addressed someone whose name began with P, but cut himself off just in time. “Yeah . . . a few times.” 

“He’s done it to me more times than I can count. He talks to this guy so often that he slips up and calls anyone that. He always pretends he never did, so he’s definitely keeping it deliberately secret . . .”

“Is this . . . a bad thing?” When Ymir looks at me, her eyebrow raised, I shrug. “So he’s got an imaginary friend. _I_ had imaginary friends when I was younger. He might be embarrassed because he’s so old now and he still has one.”

“When you were younger, yeah. Listen. When he’s not paying attention I overhear some of the . . . conversation. I don’t think this is _just_ an imaginary friend, and I want to know who exactly this person is. So far I’ve heard him talk about some pretty strange things, usually when he’s sleep-deprived. Off the top of my head, he once told The Prince to, uh, ‘Let him out.’ And to ‘get away from the bars, because they’re cold.’”

“Bars . . . ?” What the hell would he be talking about? Let him out? He lives outside. What cold bars could he be trying to stay away from?

“I’ve been listening for quite a while, and here’s what I think. I think this person, this man, has to do with how he was made, like maybe The Prince was someone he knew, someone who was with him when he was kidnapped and turned into a naga all those years ago,” Ymir intones. “And judging from what I’ve heard, I think The Prince was the one who took him. Turned him into what he is. For some reason he just keeps talking to this guy- this royal guy, or something. And sometimes, when he gets too deep into the conversation, it’s like it takes him back to when he was captured and he’s seven years old again.”

Seven years old again. My mouth opens with muted revelation when I realize what was so off about Marco’s voice when he woke up and said those strange words. He’d adopted the wheedling, clumsy pronunciation of a child. My head is starting to hurt from following this. Ymir goes on, “I want to know what happened to him. I want to know how exactly they changed my baby brother into what he is now, and The Prince might be the way to find out. You saw how weak Marco was when he’d gone days without sleep. Believe me, if he doesn’t have someone around to watch him because of his blindness, he’s too anxious to sleep, and he _will_ stay awake for days. Jean, why is it that we can’t just ask Marco what happened to him?”

My mouth opens and closes a few times, unsure of what words to produce. “Because it fucks with him?” I supply. “He doesn’t want to think about it. He goes berserk if he does.”

“Exactly. We can’t ask him because if we push him too far, he remembers how he was made, panics, and goes into the berserk state. Sooo . . .” She looks to the side, like she’s checking to see if someone’s listening, before piercing me with her stare again. “What happens when we ask him when he _can’t_ go into the berserk state?”

Something about this does not sit right. Too much technical talk, too much insidious insinuations. “Like when he’s shedding. When he hasn’t slept and he’s too tired to get triggered.”

“Exactly. Trust me, I’ve pushed him. I think under certain circumstances he can’t get into the berserk state because it takes too much energy he doesn’t have. I want to find out what happened and I think you do too. How would you feel about helping me out?”

“H-How?”

“Easy. When he doesn’t seem, uh, coherent, when he hasn’t slept for days, just ask him some questions. Try to find out who The Prince is, or how they turned his legs into that. Don’t worry about making him berserk; he’s too exhausted to do so. More often than not he falls asleep before he can answer - it’s why I haven’t gotten much progress, honestly. But if you get anything out of him, come and tell me. We can figure this out.”

I swallow, my heart beating hard for some reason. “This doesn’t feel right. This feels, like . . . manipulative.”

“Manipulative? Jean, he can’t remember it when he’s that tired. He won’t even know. He hasn’t caught me yet, obviously,” she snorts. “We’re just doing a little investigating, and he’s none the wiser. It’s not hurting him, so why not?”

I bite my lip, fidgeting under her gaze and the guilt of my curiosity. Yeah, I do really want to know who did this to Marco and how. I want to know who in the world has the power to turn legs into a snake body. It’s for a good cause, right? If we know more about Marco’s condition, we can better help him, or something. This isn’t about just curiosity. It’s about knowing what dangers exist in the world. Imagine this Prince coming to Trost. Would the information we could draw from Marco be able to help us then?

“I guess I can try,” I grumble eventually. “I’m not sure what progress I can make, I mean, if you’ve been doing this for . . . how long?”

“A few years now, back when I _really_ started noticing how much he talks to himself. And since he only sheds a few times a year, I don’t get the opportunity much. I figure someone else to help me might speed things along.” Ymir flashes me a rare smile - not a grin or a smirk that she’s so fond of, but a real, genuine smile, a soft upturn of her lips rather than an eyebrow-scrunching leer that precedes a quip or insult and bares white canines. It makes her sharp face look gentle. I melt under it, my face heating up all of a sudden.

Fuck, I do _not_ have a crush on Ymir right now. Damn it, why can’t I make a single friend without crushing on them at some point? Fuck!

“Yeah, uh . . . yeah,” I agree lamely. “I’ll help you.” I’m an asshole.

I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?

“Good,” Ymir says with satisfaction. “Pretend nothing’s going on when he’s lucid and we’ll be all good. Tell me everything he says word-for-word, if you can, and we’ll try to figure it out together.”

“Some fucked-up guy, this Prince is,” I mumble, “kidnapping people and fucking up their bodies.”

“Yeah, no kidding.” Ymir plays with her fingers, the shadowed look on her face reminding me of this morning. Tired agitation has no place on her face. I don’t like seeing it there.

“Hey,” I say, patting her shin. “What’s up?”

“Wha?” She looks up sharply, eyes widened in surprise. “What?”

“You’ve got a weird look on your face. And melancholy doesn’t look good on you! You’re supposed to, you know, draw life from the youthful and shit to live forever. Feed off my misery. Come on, I’m the youngest and prettiest.” I indicate my own face, blinking rapidly in mock flirtation. 

“You have the weirdest way of being worried for your friends,” Ymir sighs. She tips her head forward to rub her eyes, scrunching her nose up. “Sorry, I guess. I was just thinking. When, uh, when bodies started appearing in the Jinae area . . . well, there were a lot of suspicious folks living there, and the whole town was so scared anyway. People started saying the bodies were cursed. That if you touched or moved one - hell, even looked at one too long without making a-a hand gesture to ward away bad spirits - you’d be afflicted with bad fortune, or infertility, or something else bad. Even a target on your back for the kidnapper to come back and get you. All depended on who you asked.” Ymir covers a cough in the back of her wrist, her head thudding back on the arm of the couch. She looks nice with her hair down, but older. More tired. “We didn’t bury the bodies; we burned them. Way out in the woods with something covering your face so you wouldn’t breathe in the cursed fumes. We’d let the trees absorb their ashes instead.” She blinks at the ceiling, looking far away, before returning to me and shrugging. “I don’t know, I was just remembering.”

I almost open my mouth to point out the similarity between this paranoia and Ymir’s problem with Trost, but something tells me this is not the time. The distant look in Ymir’s mud-colored eyes makes me wonder how many times she’s thought about Marco’s twisted body being found, Marco’s ashes spreading to an uncaring sky as the people who knew him look on with detached fear, unwilling to even feel his essence one last time. I try to imagine Thomas going gray over me like that and feel sad because . . . I can’t. I don’t give him much opportunity to like me anyway.

My sudden dip in mood needs an outlet. I plunk the table loaf I brought with me onto Ymir’s shins, wiggling my eyebrows. “So that dinner date.” 

Ymir looks up and rolls her eyes, sighing up at the ceiling, but not before I see a slight upturn of her lips. “Congratulations: you got me the most boring part of dinner.”

“Hey, hey! This is my _profession_ here, my _livelihood._ Bread is the most integral part of any delicious supper. There are people who don’t even have this, you know!”

“I’ve never been a very big bread fan, Jim, but I appreciate the effort. In all my years no one’s tried to seduce me with baked yeast before. If I wasn’t confined to this couch my legs would be spread so wide right now.”

“You are so fucking gross,” I laugh. “I mean it. You know how my mom would react if she just heard that? She wouldn’t let me leave the house for a year.”

“Oh my god, I forgot to tell you. Your mom tried to kick my _ass,_ bro.”

I bolt upright and grab Ymir’s legs, mouth open in horror. “What?” 

“She fuckin’ saw me across the street or something and rushed me! Listen, Jean, I made eye contact with her across this big crowd of people and I saw the danger in those eyes. I hightailed the hell out of there.”

Oh god, oh shit, I didn’t think she was that serious about her dislike of Ymir. “Oh my god, she- _oh my god,”_ I hiss, mushing my face in my hands and muffling my voice with irritation and a wall of skin. I glance up at Ymir, my face twisted with embarrassment. “I am so sorry.”

“Jean, she was gonna wrap those meaty fingers around any body part she reached first, I could tell. She plowed through that crowd toward me like nobody’s business!” Ymir shakes her head and chuckles, her lips pulled back and up in a smile that doesn’t strike me as genuine. “Luckily I know so many backroads. Even if she didn’t come to physical blows, a conversation with her is not one I look forward to.”

“But why would she- I just- gragh!” I burst out, my feet tapping in agitation. “I’m gonna yell at her when I get home, I swear to god.” Something along the lines of, _Leave my fucking friends alone or I’ll have sex in the woods with her or something equally horrifying._

“Hey, don’t start trouble. It ain’t worth that; I’m used to it.”

“Ymir!” She shrugs at my dismayed expression. “What does that mean?”

“I mean I’m just used to it! Don’t worry about it. I don’t wanna be the source of any tension in your house. I’ll start feeling emotions, like _guilt_ and _responsibility.”_

“I-” I clamp my mouth shut and groan really loudly, staring daggers at Ymir, eyes narrowed, lips bunched up. 

“What is your problem?”

“I am worried! A-And nosy.”

“Go back to hating me, it was much more attractive.” 

She cackles as I sputter and gape, trying to swing her legs off me, but I grab them and haul them back onto my lap. “Wait wait, I’m not done yelling at you! What happened with the military police and shit? How long did they keep you?”

“Oh, that,” Ymir says, twisting her mouth to the side and furrowing her brows as she flips a hand dismissively. Her insouciant attitude reassures me immensely; if she’s so flippant then there must not be much to worry about (and certainly not much to make myself go gray worrying about all afternoon) (which I did today). “It was just standard . . . ‘This is such a great opportunity for you and we _strongly recommend_ you reconsider your stance on our _bulllllshit,’_ standard stuff. What, were you gonna bust in there and rescue me?”

“Psch, no,” I scoff. “I would’ve made Reiner do it.”

“I love you too, you enamorous debonair.”

“Not sure what the fuck that means. I don’t . . . I don’t think ‘enamorous’ is a word . . .”

“I don’t think your mom is a word. Anyway!” She sits up to make a show of rocking her old woman hips off the couch, groaning like her back’s about to give out and swinging her legs off of me successfully this time. “Wanna help me tackle this baked yeast you just graciously bestowed upon me?”

“Oh, is that date I promised finally happening?” 

Ymir grunts as she stretches. “Something like that. Unless your parents will wonder where you are . . . ?”

“Nah, I’m good. If they wonder where I was I’ll just tell them I was hanging out with Reiner or something-”

“Or Eren.”

“Yeah, ha ha, funny. And when I get home I’m gonna yell at Mom for . . . whatever it is she tried to do with you. I’m _still_ so angry about that, ugh . . .”

“Hey, please don’t start a fight on my behalf,” Ymir warns me seriously, scooping the bread off my lap and tapping me on the head with it before turning to head to her kitchen counter. “I may claim I thrive on drama, but I’m actually delicate as a flower. I could never know I’m the rift in the Kirschtein household and sleep soundly at night.”

“No, you thrive on _being_ dramatic. You want help making food?”

“Do you cook as well as you shoot?”

I slowly rise from my seat, scowling at the amused hunch of her shoulders, her back turned to me as she braces for my outrage. “Leave me alone. I fought off over ten homeless people for that bread on the way here.”

“Oh, my gallant hero,” Ymir drawls dryly, snorting as I join her at the counter. “I’ll give you simple tasks, like standing there and looking pretty. And dicing potatoes.” She indicates three of the vegetable in question, rolling them my way. This, at least, I know how to do, though she’ll probably find some way to criticize me or correct my technique. 

Halfway into my task I look up, contemplating the spider plants around her window above her counter. “Today was wild,” I announce, half to myself.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” It feels nice to end such a social day on this quiet, companionable note.

v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v

“Watch what he does, Jean,” Ymir says aside to me, amusement lacing her voice as she plows through a windswept pile of leaves, waving her hands around in her pockets. “He’ll be there and mope, and mope, and complain all day, then all of a sudden shoot off in the woods and be back, good as new. Don’t tease him too much, that’s my job.”

I’m concentrating on absorbing as much warm wind as I can; you can bet your ass this will be the last reasonably warm day of the season, the sun beaming and bright, cloudy sky belying icy waves of daytime snowfall and nighttime bone-deep chill. I’ve actually taken off my coat to tie the arms around my waist, rolling up my shirt sleeves and letting my skin feel the fresh, forgiving air before I wrap it in thick cloths and furs for like three months straight. I’ll be like a shriveled little sun-starved raisin, whiter than snow.

Not to mention this is apparently the last time I’ll see Ymir and Marco for a long while.

True to Ymir’s word, Marco waits for us in the glade, curled about the log like an overgrown tree root. He looks miserable. Clearly not blind, though, because when he blinks up at us with a pouty face from his curled up arms his eyes look as normal as ever, no milky film covering his dark, devouring irises. His only greeting is to call a long and drawn-out, _“Ughghgh,”_ before burying his face in his arms again.

“Awww, Marco, are you feeling under the weather?” Ymir croons, trotting up to him and sitting next to his head, ruffling his hair, dodging his blind grab for the offending hand. “Are you shedding today?”

“I hoooope,” Marco whines. I approach them and sneak a glance at his snake body, wondering if I can see any more differences in it. His scales seem . . . darker than usual. According to Ymir, he’ll pull the whole blasted thing off at once in a little while. “The water is going to be _freezing.”_

“You don’t need to wash yourself off afterwards, you know, hon. It’s not like you’ve got dirt to wash off under there.”

“It’s not a feeling you understand, Miri! It’s like if you began sweating under the first layer of your skin. Very uncomfortable. Hi, Jean, don’t touch me.”

“I . . . wasn’t gonna.” I plop down on Ymir’s other side, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees to look at Marco. “So . . . how are you?”

“UGH.”

“Okay, that’s all I need to know. Hey, uh, I brought you some extras of those rolls you like,” I tell him, patting the bag I brought, loaded with four or five times the usual amount of chocolate-studded bread than usual. Hey, what can I say? I had nothing to do this morning and felt generous. What a nice guy I am.

Marco’s mouth falls open in delight. “Thank you, Jean! Oh, that’s so sweet of you. You didn’t have to do that. Once I’m done shedding I’ll definitely eat those and tell you if they’re good.”

Ymir sniggers, pulling that damned sky-blue sweater she’s been knitting for god knows how long out of her bag and setting it on her lap, taking up the needles in both hands. Halfway through last month she realized she was making the thing much too small for Christa’s size, and after a lot of screeching and cursing realized all she had to do was resize the blasted garment instead of starting all over. Boy, she’s sure got it bad if she’s willing to knit one thing for months on end. “Waaait for it,” she singsongs, elbowing both me and Marco at the same time, evoking identical retaliatory reactions with our own elbows. “He’s gonna moan and groan then, suddenly, off he shoots!”

“I’m going to change the subject now because I don’t appreciate you making fun of me when I am suffering, which Jean isn’t doing. Jean was so sweet to me when he came to visit! By the way, Jean,” Marco says casually to me, leaning over Ymir and interrupting her knitting, “Ymir said a little bit ago that you were probably the least nurturing person she’s ever met, and wouldn’t be surprised if you, um . . . what was it, Miri, ‘drank-’”

“Marco, don’t say it!”

“’-drank the ocean dry to spite a dehydrated Eren Jaeger’ . . . which is funny because the ocean is salt and would make you thirstier-”

“Fuckin’ snitch! Don’t believe a word he says, Jimbles, he always was a bigger squealer than a piggy. I believe in your nurturing talents with a steadfast heart.” Ymir folds a hand over her heart, jutting her chin into the air.

“You also said he treated your cat with more affection than he’s probably shown his entire family.”

“Okay, _that_ one is true,” I cut in. “The first one might be true too.”

“So maybe I did say all this,” Ymir admits, clacking her needles together. “But this was- would you both give me some damn room? Let me breathe here,” she demands, waving her arms in front of her and shooing us back; during the course of the conversation we both started leaning toward each other over her lap. “Anyway, this was before Jean risked his damn life to walk ALL the way to my house and give me a load of bread, which totally, _completely_ opened my eyes to how generous and giving our precious Jonathan is-”

“Uh, I think you mean Jimbles. JEAN.” I clap my hands over my mouth so hard it makes a noise that echoes. Fuck me entirely.

Ymir turns to me with incredulous eyes. “Did you just _name_ yourself Jimbles?”

Marco starts to cackle. “No!” I exclaim. “Shit! You spoke too fast, I fucked up!”

“Sure, Jimbles,” Ymir says.

“Whatever you say, Jimbles,” Marco giggle-snorts.

“I hate both of you motherfuckers. My name is Jean.”

“Okay, Jimbles ‘Jean’ Kirschtein.”

“Shut up, Marco! I could _hear_ the quotation marks in your damn voice!”

Marco opens his mouth to respond, grinning even as he does so, but whatever he was going to say dies in a hiss as his jaw goes slack. He jumps up on his hands, slamming his palms down on the bark, and declares, “I’LLBEBACK.” Then off he takes, slithering at high speed away from us and disappearing into the woods.

Ymir utters a gross laugh, whacking her knee. “What did I say, huh? Off like an arrow.”

“You’re making him like to taunt me!” I whine, watching Marco’s long form disappear over a low ridge. “Soon he’ll be giving me wedgies. You’re turning him into a scaly bully.”

“I’m shocked you know what quotation marks even are. And hey, he’s growing a sense of humor. Now he won’t follow you around, kissing your ass all the time. Lighten up!”

“Lighten your ass up,” I grumble. “So what’s on the agenda for today, _Miri?_ A hundred pushups? A thousand? Racing each other up a mountain? What?”

“Nothing.”

“Whoa, what?”

“You heard me. There’s no point wasting such a nice day getting ourselves worked up when we can just rest and relax. I don’t quite want to spend Marco’s last day here sweaty and gross. So just enjoy yourself, Jonathan- I mean, Jimbles. Soak up some sunshine.”

“I . . . am not complaining,” I concede, huffing and looking around at the blue, cloud-dotted sky. “Wish I’d brought something to do.”

“I’m right here.”

“I’m not gonna do you.”

“No, asshole, I mean I’m right here to talk! God! Why is your mind constantly in the gutter? You know, what, never mind, don’t talk to me,” she sniggers, clacking her needles for emphasis. “I might get corrupted or something.”

“Corrupted?! You corrupted me, with all this secrecy and naga business!”

A pause, then, “Hah,” is Ymir’s only reply. Not even a “ha-ha.” It strikes me as oddly short, and accompanied by the suddenly over-focused face she’s sporting, staring at her knitting, which she’s not even doing, I’m starting to think something I said made her uncomfortable. 

What did I say? Crap, the guilt rises up as I recognize melancholy in the tenseness around her eyes, the crease of her brow, the way she draws back her lips to bare her front teeth. Did I blame her for . . . what, dragging me into the Marco secret? I was joking about that, and the entire debacle was my fault in the first place. I have to admit, all the trouble I’ve had so far, or at least a large part of it, has been attributed to me.

I can’t stand for much longer the thought that I made her feel bad. We turn to each other at the same time.

“Hey, I just wanted to say-”

“Can I bring up some past-”

We both stop to stare at each other. “What?” I demand.

Ymir snorts at our simultaneous outbursts. “You go first.”

“You sure? You never turn down an opportunity to talk over me, asshole.”

“Neither do you to me. Start talkin’ before I change my mind.”

“I wanted to _say,”_ I continue, then falter; how exactly do I phrase this? “I, uh, sorry.”

“Sorry?”

“Yeah. I mean . . .”

Ymir tilts her head, her squinty eyes widened. “Sorry for what?”

I shrug. I don’t want to delve too deeply into it; I don’t want to admit, even though she deserves to know, how often I’d call her or her brother stupid, or crazy, or monsters. I’m honest, I swear, but does my vitriolic side deserve to be shown all the time? Do I deserve to be considered anything other than an intruder based on how I’ve acted? “Being a dick,” I just grunt, hoping it suffices. “And calling Marco and you names back before I got used to him.” I fidget, my lower back aching and my face refusing to turn toward her; I shuffle forward off the log to sit in the sand beneath it, leaning back against the bark. “Sorry for following you into the woods.”

Ymir doesn’t answer for a while, and the longer her silence stretches on, the more I squirm. “Well, what were you gonna say?” I demand, scowling over my shoulder at her.

Thankfully, she barks out a laugh. “Sorry, sorry! I was just surprised, because what I was going to say was sorry, too.”

“What? Sorry? For what?”

Ymir spreads her arms out. “Sorry for what? For dragging you into this crazy situation, of course. It-”

“Hey, no, wait, that’s my point! I started all this shit.”

“Yes, I know, it was your fault, so I guess I’m sorry you were so nosy and stupid.” She pauses, then leans forward, reaching up and flicking my nose before I can scrunch it and pull away. “And sorry for hitting you that one time,” she murmurs in the gentlest voice I’ve ever heard her summon.

“Wh-What are you even talking a-about?” I stammer, my ears starting to turn red, followed by my cheeks. Fuck my easy blush and constant crushing! “When did you hit me?”

“Jean, I clocked you in the nose before I even knew what your name was. No matter how stressed I was, that was shitty of me.”

“When- OH!” I exclaim, finally remembering with a flash of sensation and memory: my clogged and rusty nose, a harsh kick into a creek, wiping streaks of blood from my face. “Ymir, I was a random stranger and you were scared I was gonna tell people about Marco!”

“So I deck you? Still not cool.” She leans back, ruffling my hair and snickering when I squawk. “So I’m sorry for that. That’s what I wanted to say. And it’s nice, being able to talk about my brother with someone else. I didn’t anticipate how cathartic it would be. I suppose I needed someone to lend an ear, and Marco needed another friend. So thank you.”

“Thank you?”

“Thank you for following me into the woods.”

This woman will be the death of me.

I whip my head around to stare at the dirt instead of her, swallowing past my dry throat. “Y-Yeah, well, whatever,” I grumble, my face hot. “Tch. Riskin’ my life and shit. Adventure of a lifetime.”

We chat for a while about random things, and when we don’t, we lapse into a comfortable silence that I don’t feel the need to break. The shadows of clouds wash across the glade as the sun crawls across its ocean of egg-blue sky, appearing out of place without sparkling off the dew of a lawn of lush green grass to really provide that warm autumn feeling; instead it beams down on deadened vegetation and lifeless sand. “You know, Ymir,” I wonder aloud, “at this rate I’ll know how to shoot an arrow when I’m seventy. You suck at lesson planning.”

“You suck at lesson executing. I’m doing my level best, you miserable little cretin.”

“Look at you, letting me slack off like this. Think of all the bad habits I’m gonna develop!” I toss my head, smirking up at her. “But it’s okay, because we both know you keep me around for my stunning looks and great personality.”

 _“That,”_ she guffaws heartily, “that, wow, that sure is exactly right. You got me there.”

“You see this warm weather? All ‘cause of me. I have that effect on things. If I took my shirt off right now? Boom, dog days of summer. Universe just can’t take a body like this.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s absolutely right. Your see-through skin and balsa-wood belly really makes the world weak, huh?”

“Go fuck yourself,” I whine, giggling as I do. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Knobby-ass knees, hair looks like withered-ass straw-”

“Why do you and Marco _both_ consider my knees knobby? They’re not knobby!”

“-screechy-ass voice and flat-ass pale-ass weak-ass _ass-”_

“You’ve never seen my ass,” I choke out between fits of laughter.

“How do you know I don’t creep on you when you’re bathing? I’m kidding-”

“GROSS!” I screech (damn it, she just called me screechy!), recoiling animatedly away from her.

“I said I was kidding! Oh my god, if anyone knew I just said that-”

“You bet your ass I’m gonna expose you as a sexual predator-”

“-and we’ve got to leave this topic because look, it’s _Marcooo!”_ Ymir crows, bounding to her feet and spreading her arms to the sky. “There he is, my big shining boy!”

Her big shining boy isn’t looking nearly as buoyant. Marco crawls out of the forest with slow hand-steps, looking exhausted but not displeased as he rears up at a low angle to wave at us. His hair is dark and wet, clinging to his forehead and hanging past his shoulders. As his snake body, oscillating slowly and gently, taking all the time in the world, emerges into the sunlight, his scales intensely catch the sun, practically glittering like a tightly-nested bed of black gems all over his body.

My jaw hangs open; ensorcelled am I, taking in the changes in his body. His back scales shimmer like the obsidian knives and arrowheads I’ve seen being traded around between auspicious buyers, his belly scales look clean and creamy as soft candy, and his stripes look lighter-colored and their borders are more clearly defined. Every scale, from the wraparound ivory of his belly just where it meets human skin to the small, dense pebbles of his tail, looks like it was scrubbed and shined by a team of professionals who make nagas sparkle for a living. Shedding seems worth it if _that_ is the result. I momentarily get the image of a human’s skin coming off to reveal a cleaner, shinier skin, and the absurdity of it almost makes me laugh aloud.

“I’m sorry I wasted so much time on our last day of the year,” Marco frets, tucking his wet hair behind his ears as he approaches the log. “You have to leave soon, don’t you?”

“Hey, not that soon,” Ymir assures him, shrugging as she approaches her brother to fiddle with his hair and mush his face. She wraps her arm around his shoulder, leading him back to the log before sitting down in her previous spot. “We’ve got some time left!”

“You’re right, I suppose. Don’t touch me, Jean,” Marco says sharply for the second time today, though this time it was necessary, as my hand was raised to run my palm across his back. “Normally I would let you touch me all you want, but I just shed and I feel sensitive after I shed.”

“Sensitive baby,” I simper, watching Marco settle down on my other side, his positively _glittering_ coils arranging themselves on the log in a delicate fashion, slow and precise as Marco leans against his own body and smiles at me. “But goddamn, you look cool as all hell. If there was a naga lady around you and her would make some sparkly little naga babies.”

Marco looks at me like I just suggested an orgy. “How am I supposed to respond to that, Ymir?” he demands when she bursts out laughing at his bewildered expression. “Here’s how I will respond. Thank you for implying I would father some shiny children. You know there are no naga ladies, right?”

“Yes, yes, I know, that was the joke. God, it is actually hard to look at you; my poor eyes are getting all kinds of reflections and shit. I’m going blind! My eyes!”

We talk for a while, the three of us, switching between random topics while pausing in certain intervals to explain things to Marco, like who Sasha is, or what the purpose of a wall would be, or where Ymir’s house is in relation to the town square. I amuse the both of them for a while with a recounting of my argument with my mom Sunday night after I learned she tried to harass Ymir, which got nowhere and culminated in a couple of slamming doors. Ymir and I both brought food in the respective forms of assorted fruits and vegetables and Marco’s favorite chocolate rolls, along with some normal, _edible_ bread products I swiped from the bakery, and we share it for a late lunch. Marco burns through half the rolls like there’s no tomorrow, even though I packed them to last however long this “brumation” thing goes on for, but hey, they’re his, he can do whatever with them.

It’s nice like this. No lesson, no pressure to go home just yet. Though the sky changing colors, blue to purple to orange, is more excessively noticeable than any hourglass’s inexorable sand, I let myself relax in the afternoon sun for as long as it beams down on us.

One more cloud besides the time running out looms over my mental horizon. I still feel guilty for reasons I can’t explain, but the mystery of The Prince weighs heavily on my mind, manifesting in some excessive monitoring of Marco when he speaks. He hasn’t done so so far, but I keep listening for that little slip of the tongue, that verbal mishap that now means much more. It hampers my investment in the conversation when I keep focusing too hard on what words _aren’t_ being said instead of what are, so I kick myself, figuring I’ll let Ymir handle this one.

When the chill seeps in, halfway through an attempt to explain the steps of a folk dance Ymir and I both happen to know through hand motions and foot-taps we can all barely see in the abrupt autumn sunset, Ymir sees my shivering and hunched shoulders and sighs. “Looks like it’s late,” she observes, her voice quiet.

I respond faster than Marco does; the cold might fuck with me relentlessly, but it doesn’t turn me into a damn statue. “Getting kind of dark,” I agree, both looking forward to getting home and wondering if I can hold out for a little bit longer. I’m enjoying myself, damn it.

Marco, who eventually let me touch his absurdly shiny back (after asking me to be gentle and not whack him or something, which I of course complied with; he laughed when I compared his sensitivity to a sunburn) and has draped some of it across my lap, stirs, every coiled stretch of his snake body slithering in different directions as he moves behind me to huddle up to Ymir’s side, wrapping an arm around her and resting his chin on her shoulder. She flashes him a half-smile, reaching up to pat his face. “Don’t be glum, Miri,” he tells her. “You’ll still see me. You know that.”

“’S not the same when you’re lying there like a frozen dead body. I’ll miss talking to you above all, squirt.”

“You can still talk to me when I’m sleeping! I promise to listen, even asleep. It won’t be long and I’ll be awake to respond to you again.”

“For you it’s like a long nap, but I’ll be living through several lonely months, my dear.”

“You might just have to resort to Jonathan for company!” Marco says innocently, but I see that little glance he does out of the corner of his eyes in my direction, gauging my reaction!

I lean back and aim a kick at his snake body, remembering almost too late that I cannot do that and managing to redirect the impact to a light tap to his waist. “I hear that.”

“I know you do. Please make sure Ymir doesn’t shut herself inside her house all winter, if that’s not too much to ask? Her only friends shouldn’t be me and a couple of cats.”

“Hey, I have met her cats and one of them makes for awesome company.”

“Marco, I have plenty of friends! Who do you think I play dice with every week, a bunch of enemy hoodlums?”

“Oh, I forgot about them. Okay, her only friends shouldn’t be a bunch of friends, me, a couple of cats, and no Jean.” He stares between us. “What I mean to say is I want you two specifically to spend time together in the winter.”

“That was so subtle,” I observe to Ymir, immediately hiding the fact that my heart thumps hard at the idea. What is _wrong_ with me?

“I know, just . . . _way_ over my head there.”

“Don’t think I don’t know that that’s sarcasm,” Marco warns, but his attempt at seriousness quickly dissolves into giggling. “I really do mean it. You two should hang out! You’ve been getting along so well lately.”

“What are you talking about? I hate that crazy lady. I don’t even know her. I don’t even know her name. Emu, or something?”

“Ymir the Emu, reporting for duty,” Ymir drones, saluting with a click of her teeth. She runs a hand through Marco’s now-dry hair and stands, leaning back and stretching. “Ymir the Emu says it’s time to walk little Jimbles home, as it’s past his bedtime, and if we leave him out here he’ll get brittle as an icicle.”

I clutch my heart, gasping, “Carry me.”

“In your dreams.” Ymir turns to Marco, who has risen vertically up to her level, looking mournful. Sensing finality, I stand as well, gathering my stuff together. Ymir wraps Marco up in a tight hug, holding it for a while, then takes Marco’s face in her hands and leans their foreheads together. “You’ve got everything together that you need to do?”

“Got it all, don’t worry. If I need anything else, I’ll leave a note for you.”

“Then I’ll see you when I see you.” She tugs his head down to kiss his forehead and then stands there for a moment, fiddling with Marco’s dark hair and brushing it with her fingers, her hands gentle and maternal. Marco indulges her with a knowing smile, staying still and letting her stall, until she takes a step back and reclaims her aloof demeanor with a harsh bump into his shoulder with hers. “Well, say bye to Jimbles! I’ll try to cart his sobbing carcass into town without dragging him too much, but it’ll be hard when he’s sooo heartbroken about having to leave you.”

Marco chuckles as he turns to me, drifting closer to me, then stops. “Am I going to see you again?”

I open my mouth to answer with certainty, but my voice falters as I realize what a good question this is. “That is up . . . to . . . ?” I glance at Ymir helplessly, hoping she’ll fill in the blanks.

“What?” she asks.

“Will this be, like . . . happening? After winter . . . ?” Shit, did I assume too much? Ymir didn’t explicitly _say_ we were continuing my lessons in spring, did she? Was this only going to be a one-season thing, an autumn to be remembered but not repeated? 

“This, as in our arrangement?” I nod, and her lips curve up in a smile. “Well, will you still be seeking the honor and prestige of an archer?”

“Yeah, duh.”

She nods, appearing satisfied. “Then it’s on, Jeanbo. I’ll let you know when we start up again in spring.”

I pump a fist energetically. “Sounds like a plan,” I exclaim with a little more enthusiasm than I should allow, but I let it slide.

I turn back to Marco, smirking. “There’s your answer.”

Marco positively _beams,_ from his shining eyes to his wide, nakedly delighted smile. “I’m so glad to hear that.” He looks me up and down, his smile twisting in contemplation and nervousness. “Jean, is it all right if I hug you?”

I blink at the question, knowing it was coming but surprised by it anyway. “Thanks for asking first, but yeah, of course. Marco, do I have to remind you of something really important?”

His eyes widen. “Like wha?” Right as I lean in to talk he rears back in displeasure, as if he can dodge the inevitable. “No! I know what you’re going to say!”

 _“You saved my fuckin’ life, dude.”_ I grin, snickering as he groans and looks at the sky in defeat. “So really, Marco, you can do whatever you want. A hug is totally fine.”

“Not that again,” he sighs, smiling through it all. “If you think I think you owe me or something-”

“I don’t! I’m just saying I’m cool with anything. Honest to god.”

“Good.” Marco considers me, just smiling like that’s the only thing in the world he wants to do, and cautiously opens his arms. I’m hit with a moment of panic - do I hug both arms around his neck, or one arm around his neck and the other around his chest, or both around his chest? - before settling on what feels natural, wrapping my arms around his chest with this dumb look on my face. I think it’s a smile, which is pretty dumb. I can’t remember the last time I hugged someone and I feel awkward at it, but thankfully Marco seems perfect at filling in the blanks; he practically seizes me and hugs me back tighter, one of those good full-body close-pressed never-let-you-go embraces that marks a professional, natural-born hugger. 

It feels nice - my chin in the crook of his neck, his dark hair tickling my cheek, his bare, smooth skin under my hands - so when we let go I’ve still got that dumb look on my face. Marco laughs lightly and lifts my chin up a hair with gentle fingers. “Ymir, isn’t he so handsome when he smiles?” he asks, and I swat his hands away with a grumble. “I’m serious, I mean that!”

“Ymir, don’t let your brother hit on me right when he’s about to become a frozen dead body or something,” I implore, feeling the need to hug something again. Goddamn, am I touch-starved. I’m going to have to hug my dad when I get home or something (Mom doesn’t get the privilege right now!), or Cane if no one else is there. 

“All right, all right, lovebirds, break it up, let’s go,” Ymir drawls, grabbing her bag and then crossing over to me with a tired look on her face to sling her arm across my shoulders, jostling me. “It’s time for all of us to sleep. Got all your stuff, Jean?”

“Got it right here.” I grab my own bag and wave the strap for emphasis.

“If I say goodbye to Marco again it’ll take another twenty minutes, so I’m just going to cut it short here now. See you, baby.” She salutes Marco with a lack of vigor only my months around her have equipped me to recognize and spins us around, marching us toward the woods and releasing me halfway to the tree line. 

I take advantage of the freedom and twist around to look behind me. Marco watches us go, his massive, shimmering snake body curled beneath him, his dark face framed by his shaggy black hair and eyes bright and friendly, but wanting. Dust hangs airborne in the shallow shafts of golden sunlight slicing through the trees above him, casting a xanthic glow upon the familiar glade. The whole scene looks like something out of a fairytale book. It looks ethereal; it looks worth capturing. My sketchbook flashes across my mind.

Marco lifts his hand to wave, and I wave back with a twist in my gut. When we’re far enough away I turn to look at where I’m walking, and when I glance back again Marco’s gone. 

With silence it occurs to me now that this heart-thumping, stomach-swooping feeling might simply be acknowledgment. Acknowledgment that I’m included, that my company is sought after, even if it is by a solitary snake boy and his crazy sister. Acknowledgment that a couple of months ago, I wouldn’t have dreamed I would ever see the naga, let alone speak to him, hug him, and become his friend.

I glance to the side at Ymir, disliking the silence. Her eyes are trained on the forest floor, her expression empty. “What do you do in the winter, Ymir? When your brother’s not around?”

She utters a dry, humorless chuckle. “Same thing he does whenever we leave. I wait.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! IknowIknowIknow, it's me, I'm alive, this fic isn't dead, I _promise._ I'm so, so sorry, I really am. I know you guys keep reassuring me it's okay, but I'll always feel guilty for taking so long to write and for all the people who lost interest because of it.
> 
> Aaand with that, we wrap up Year 0! This chapter will probably be the last one where Ymir has more focus than Marco, so look forward to that; the snake baby will have his day. Next chapter picks up the following spring, the beginning of Year 1, which is a pretty gay year, if I say so myself, but certainly not as gay as Years 2, 3, and especially 4. Lots of gay stuff to look forward to!
> 
> Someone recently commented that they liked how I didn't exclude Ymir to focus solely on Jean and Marco's relationship and it was super sweet of them to say that, and that probably contributed to the giant Jean/Ymir cheesefest this chapter became, as well as introducing the first inklings of ~plot~. Hope you enjoyed, and thank you so much - SO SO much - for reading! Sorry it was shorter than the last one, and I'm worried I lost Jean's voice halfway through; please feel free to tell me what you thought, especially in terms of pacing, dialogue, characterization, etc.
> 
> Oh, and that sunburn story Jean overshared? Yeah, that happened to me, lmao. Sun poisoning's the pits.
> 
> The place Marco was with the waterfalls is based on the Seven Sacred Pools in Maui - Google Image it for a nice visual!

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my god, it's my first shipping fanfic. My first SNK fanfic. Help me. Someone stop me.
> 
> Sorry, kids, but there won't be any smut in this. I can't write it. It would be the absolute worst.
> 
> My tumblr is **saphruikan** ; come find me and talk about snake penises. Now tracking the **fic: dichotomy** tag. Constructive criticism is and always will be extremely encouraged.


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